


This woman's work

by Whenyourhairisalsoahood



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 80s musical references, ACAB sentiments, Coming Out, F/F, Historical exposition, Lesbian AU, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Socialism, british au, capitalist Trixie, eighties AU, fat women fucking unapologetically, if you imagine Trixie's boyfriend as being played by Brian Firkus I wouldn't blame you, leather dykes, lesbian (and bi women) literary canon, self discovery, socialist bants, wlw subcultures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 104,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenyourhairisalsoahood/pseuds/Whenyourhairisalsoahood
Summary: 12th March 1984: Following strikes in Yorkshire, Scotland, Durham and Kent; Welsh miners walk out of their collieries.Trixie Mattel is getting the last bleach and blow-dry she’ll have for over a year. She doesn't know that it will be the last yet; but she does know that something big is coming.***It has been an uncomfortable week of political debate at the family dinner table. The radio has been constantly tuned to the news, rather than the pop charts that Trixie and her sister like to listen to. The National Coal Board have said that 20,000 jobs are going to be lost, and even Trixie isn’t naïve enough to believe that they will be confined to England.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hesitate to call this a Pride AU because I'm writing about a real time & a real place, but that might be the best way of explaining it!
> 
> This is something I've wanted write for a long time, so thank you for giving me the confidence & the space to do so. 
> 
> Other ships and characters will be added as we go, please trust me on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialect  
> Duw - Welsh expression of surprise, often used in multiples!  
> Bach - Welsh term of endearment, particularly for someone younger or smaller than yourself.  
> Twp - Stupid  
> Bara brith - A Welsh loaf cake  
> Iesu Grist - Jesus Christ  
> Cariad - Love (the noun not the verb)

**12th March 1984: Following strikes in Yorkshire, Scotland, Durham and Kent; Welsh miners walk out of their collieries.**

Trixie Mattel is getting the last bleach and blow-dry she’ll have for over a year. She doesn't know that it will be the last yet; but she does know that something big is coming. 

***

It has been an uncomfortable week of political debate at the family dinner table. The radio has been constantly tuned to the news, rather than the pop charts that Trixie and her sister like to listen to. The National Coal Board have said that 20,000 jobs are going to be lost, and even Trixie isn’t naïve enough to believe that they will be confined to England.

On the evening before the strike, Mr Mattel calls Trixie and her sister out to the shed. He gives them £20 each and tells them to spend it on something fun, something that they really want. Then he instructs them not to tell their mother anything about it.

Trixie immediately knew how she wanted to spend it. She'd dreamed about getting her hair bleached for months. She flies down the hill to knock on the door of the Sian the Hairdresser, just as she is sweeping up the hair and closing for the day. 

Sian reluctantly opens the door to Trixie, but she’d cheers up considerably when Trixie unballs her fist to show Sian the money. Sian squeezed Trixie into her appointment book and Trixie makes her way home, daydreaming about the things she could have done to her hair. 

She loves having her hair done at Sian’s, even though she knows it isn't very glamorous compared to the salons in America or London, or even Cardiff. The leather seat covers are cracked and peeling, the magazines all at least six months old, and not all the lightbulbs work. But for these next couple of hours Trixie dreams while Sian works on her, brushing the strong ammonia on to Trixie’s deep brown hair before wrapping it up into little parcels of foil.

Trixie always indulges herself in the same day-dream. She imagines herself as a Hollywood starlet like Molly Ringwald or Winona Ryder. She’d have a proper perm and wear a sophisticated, powder pink double-breasted jacket with shoulder pads and golden buttons.

She imagines a long street flanked by palm trees, Coca Cola in glass bottles and meeting Madonna at a party. Madonna appreciates Trixie’s dry wit, strokes her hand over Trixie’s sun kissed shoulder and declares her to be “far more than just a pretty face.” Maybe Trixie would be both an actress _and_ a philanthropist.  


Trixie tries to ignore the acrid smell of the bleach and immerses herself in the fantasy, where she is dancing with Madonna and Molly to _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun._ It’s a balmy night and they are right next to a rippling blue pool. 

Too soon, Sian interrupts her daydream by wheeling Trixie out from underneath the domed metal hairdryer. 

Arthur Scargill’s agitated voice booms around the salon from the small plastic radio. 

Scargill has been the leader of the Union representing miners almost as long as Trixie has been alive. His Yorkshire accent is very different to her own, but she recognises it immediately. Some people in the village say that he goes too far, that he’s a Communist, but to Trixie it just seems like he gets the job done. 

His voice spits from the speakers, _“They are going to close twenty pits. It is a calculated decision to provoke a strike in the British coalfield. It is designed to propel miners into action in the belief that, firstly, we won’t do it and, secondly, that we will fail immediately.”_

“Duw duw duw, there’s a worry,” says Sian, unrolling Trixie’s hair from the foil.

Trixie makes a non-committal noise, trying to hold on to the coconut smell of cocktails, the heat on her skin.

“What else are they supposed to do? The boys have got to stand up from themselves,” says an old woman having her curls set.

“You’re right, Doreen,” Sian sighs, rinsing out Trixie’s hair. “This has come out lovely, bach! Look how light that is!” Sian holds the length of Trixie’s hair up for her to see. It’s almost white, so pale that the salon’s lights bounce off of it. 

Trixie doesn’t have quite enough money for bleaching, a cut _and_ a perm, but Sian knows just how to dry it to get it big and bouncy. At least Trixie can feel like a film star for a couple of days until she washes it.

Trixie falls back into her starlet fantasy as Sian and Doreen chat about the news.

“She just wants to break the backbone of the community, that fucking bitch! Oh – sorry, bach!” 

Trixie waves her hand back at Sian, “Don’t worry, I’ve heard my parents calling Thatcher worse!” 

Sian laughs and gets back to Trixie’s hair.

It takes Sian another hour to finish working on Trixie. Eventually, Sian holds her round plastic mirror up for Trixie to see her new hair from every angle. Trixie can’t help squealing with delight, tossing the fountain of white blonde curls from side to side while she runs her hands over it. She makes a little whingy noise under her breath, stroking her fingers around her face while she grins at herself in the mirror. 

She wishes she was going to Swansea to swish her hair around under the flashing nightclub lights. There’s a weekly bus to Harper’s Nightclub in Swansea on a Friday night, but it'll definitely be cancelled until the strike is over. No one will have the spare money to go out drinking and dancing. She’ll just have to stay in and shimmy in front of the mirror instead.  


Trixie hopes to be spotted on her way home, preferably by the bitchy girls from school pushing their prams around the park. She’d even tolerate a van full of men whistling at her. But the streets are eerily quiet. Everyone is inside huddled around the TV, waiting for the news. 

Trixie lives just up the hill from Sian’s, on a street of stone terraced houses that all look the same. She unlocks the door to her home. Before she even steps in, she knows what she’ll find. Her dad will be sitting in the corner in the fat green armchair, his bald head adding to the round greasy patch on the cushion behind his head. Her mum will be singing in the kitchen. Her sister will be sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a glossy magazine open in her lap.  


She’s not wrong. The only variation is that her sister has a large paper bag on her lap instead.

“Mabli, what did you get? More records?” Trixie asks, flopping down next to her on their patterned sofa.

“I got _She’s So Unusual_ because I used to borrow Katie Davies’ copy and she’s being a twat lately. And I got _This Is Spinal Tap_ ‘cause it came out this week, and _Touch_ , which I’ve wanted for ages.” 

Trixie takes them out of Mabli’s hands. She’s most interested in the copy of _Touch_ , by Eurythmics. Annie Lennox is naked on the cover, a latex mask over her face. Trixie’s read about parties just for people wearing that sort of stuff.

Annie has got hair that’s as short as a boy’s and a sharp jaw to match. Her neck and shoulders are bare and muscled too, but she’s wearing crimson lipstick. Annie eyeballs the viewer directly, so you feel that she’s staring right at you. Staring right at the parts you don’t like to think about for too long, and certainly wouldn’t want anyone looking at. Trixie can’t make head nor tail of it. 

“Your hair looks fuckin’ stunnin’, Trix,” Her sister reaches out to pat it, and Trixie bats her hand away.

“Leave it, Mabs! I want it to look nice when I see Lloyd!”

Her father looks over the top of the newspaper, “You look more like a film star from Hollywood than my little girl from the Valleys.”

Her mam shouts from the kitchen, “What’s this about hair? Trixie, you know we haven’t got the money to –“

Mabli tries to stuff the bag of records behind the sofa but she’s too slow. 

Their dad jerks the paper up to hide his face.

“Uh, I found some old birthday money in a jewelry box,” Trixie attempts.

Mabli nods, “Yeah, and Graham gave me some money.”

Her mother gives them a steely look, and Trixie knows she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Well, I only wish that I had a boyfriend to pay for my lifestyle. And, Trixie Mattel, I wish I could afford to lose my birthday money. Your birthday was last August, have you not looked for it since then? A full colour, cut and blow dry at Sian’s costs at least £20. Iesu Grist, I’m the only one with any sense around here. Girls, come and help me in the kitchen," Their mother instructs.

The two sisters trot obediently behind their mother.

“Shell these peas for me, Trixabelle.”

Trixie lets go of a breath, she knows her mam can’t be too serious if she’s using her childhood nickname.

“Mabli, grab a fork and prick up the top of that potato for me.” Their mam slides her cottage pie down the counter to them, and Mabli obediently starts pronging up little peaks in the potato with the fork. 

When she’s done, her mam hefts the heavy dish in the oven and puts Trixie’s shelled peas in a saucepan to come back to when the pie is almost browned. 

Trixie’s mam puts her hands on the small of her back and leans back until it crunches, “Girls, will you make me a cuppa? I need to put my feet up.” 

She heads into the lounge and Trixie hears her grunt as she flops onto the sofa.

Mabli and Trixie would usually just make a tea in a mug, but they both agree that their mum deserves a little treat too. They retrieve the porcelain teapot and its matching china from the back of the cupboard. Trixie finds the quilted tea-cosy their nan made, then fills the tiny sugar bowl from the big Hornsea jar they usually use. They follow their mam into the lounge, setting it out in front of her like she’s in a fancy hotel.

Inevitably, they end up talking about the strike. 

Mabli starts chipping in, “Graham says that the Government shouldn’t be expected to subsidise people just because they always used to do a job. If the business isn’t making a profit, you don’t have a viable business.”

“It’s the National Coal Board, Mabli, not a business,” says their dad flatly. 

“But if the miners just had more _aspiration_ , Mam. I mean, Graham went to the same school as everyone else and he’s a _Policeman_.”

“Well, I suppose they have to come from somewhere. They can’t all crawl out of the pigsty,” her mam says mildly. Trixie snorts into her cup.

“Mother, you shouldn’t use the word pig to refer to Police Officers.”

Their mam rolls her eyes, “I’m going to check on dinner.” 

Her mam doesn’t return from the kitchen. Eventually, Trixie follows her to find her sat in front of the oven on their wooden kickstool, hands fisted in her apron. Trixie pulls her mam’s head to her stomach so she can rest it on Trixie’s soft belly.

“I should be comforting you, not letting you comfort me,” her mam says softly.

“It’ll be fine, Mam. Most of the mines in England have walked out too, those bastards can’t take us all on.”

“Hrm, we’ll see. You’re going to have to do this with Lloyd later as well, keep some of your energy for him.”

“Yeah. He’s so twp I’ll probably have to explain that it’s not just a free holiday.”

Her mam laughs into Trixie’s stomach, “Yeah, poor bach.”

Trixie strokes her hands through her mam’s greying hair and hums the chorus of _Calon Lân_ , her mam’s favourite hymn, softly.

The Mattel family eat in silence, and Trixie mostly keeps her eyes on the clock on the mantelpiece behind her dad’s head. She’s counting down the minutes until her boyfriend arrives. 

“This is lush, Mam,” Mabli attempts, “The gravy is gorgeous.”

Their mam gives a wan smile in return but doesn’t take the opportunity to smooth things over. 

Eventually, Trixie hears the doorbell go and she knows that it’s Lloyd. She hoists her stonewash jeans up past her gut and refreshes her lipstick and perfume.  


Her mam is chatting away to Lloyd in the doorway. She can never resist a flirt with Lloyd. They come through to the lounge, Lloyd dips his head to clear the door jamb and her mother predictably has her hands squeezed tight around his upper arms.

“Duw duw, look at these, Trix! I can barely fit my hands around these big hams!” She runs her hands down her apron and fluffs her hair up. 

Lloyd just grins sheepishly and crosses the lounge to pick Trixie up as best as he can. Even with his stature, he can’t quite lift her. But he can drag her up so she’s balancing on her tip toes. She leaves a big smudge of pink over his stubbled cheek and then rubs it in, so it looks like he’s wearing blusher on one side of her face. His eyes flicker down, and she knows that if her dad wasn’t sat on the sofa behind them, he’d lean down to blow a raspberry right into her cleavage.  
  


“Mam!” Trixie shouts, “Can Lloyd have some bara brith before we go?”

Her mam sighs, “Yes love, but don’t put any butter on it.”

Trixie takes Lloyd by the hand into the kitchen and lifts her mam’s heavy bara brith out of its greaseproof paper. Everyone loves her mam’s cake. It’s always moist, not overly sweet, and properly tastes of tea. She winks at Lloyd and settles her finger over his lips for a second before silently sliding a butter knife out of the drawer. She opens the dish as quietly as she can and scoops out a generous curl of the salty butter before lowering the ceramic lid gently. She slathers it over the cake, parcels it up in more greaseproof and slips it in her handbag. 

“Mam! We’re going out!” Trixie shouts, and pulls Lloyd back through the house. Her mam hurries to give them both a kiss on the cheek, and her dad waves at them from the armchair. He’s got his feet soaking in a washing up bowl of Epsom salts, and is waiting for the darts to come on the telly.  


Lloyd drives them up to their usual spot, past their old Comprehensive School and to the edge of the nature reserve, where there’s a car park that is usually deserted. 

He throws his car into the parking space furthest from the road, and he’s barely turned off the ignition before he’s all over Trixie. His breath is wet and hot down her neck and the collar of her blouse. His strong hands are already between her legs, kneading her roughly over her jeans. He rubs the seam of the denim so hard that it’s giving her clit friction, and she shivers. 

“I love your hair blonde, babes. You look like you’ve fallen out of them magazines.”

“Dirty ones?” She suggests archly.

“Yeah, the _really dirty_ ones. The ones the boys at work bring in sometimes. Not ones I would ever buy!”

Trixie rolls her eyes, lets her head loll on the seat while he tries to pop the little buttons on her blouse with his clumsy fingers. He eventually manages it, and then he’s scooping her big breasts out of their bra, rubbing his whiskered face all over them. She brings her arms around him and squeezes the muscles at the top of his back and his shoulders while he sucks strongly on her nipples.

“Ouch!” She shouts, slapping him on his close-cropped head, “Gentle. You’re not a fucking baby.”  


He laughs at that, and she laughs too. She seizes the opportunity to strip his t-shirt off and over his head and runs her fingers through the thick scads of black hair all over his chest. She pulls the wiry hair between her fingers until he hisses his breath between his lips. It’s easy between them. It always has been, and Trixie’s grateful for it. 

He tries to throw his leg over her, but neither of them are small or delicate people. There’s no way that his whole body will fit in the gap between hers and the glovebox. 

“Lloyd! Lloydy! Put the seat back, cariad.”

He pulls a lever and Trixie shrieks as her chair is propelled backwards. Lloyd climbs over her, pushing his thick erection against her thigh. She can feel him pulsing hot through the denim. 

“Let’s get you out of these jeans before you damage yourself,” Trixie mutters into his neck, unbuckling his belt with shaking fingers and tugging his jeans down.

“Yeah!” He beams proudly, “You don’t want to boil my sperm,”

“Iesu Grist, you’re stupid. Get inside me.”

She shimmies out of her jeans and lets him drag her white M&S pants down to her knees. 

He puts his fingers between her lips quickly to check she’s wet enough, and then they line him up together. He’s so big that they can both easily fit their fists around the length of it. Trixie can’t stop her head from thinking of ‘one potato, two potato’ as they do it. Lloyd pushing into her stopped hurting years ago, but there’s still a breathless moment when she’s bracing herself for the stretch.

He gives a stomach-deep sigh as he bottoms out and she wants to split her own chest open with how much she loves him. She satisfies herself with clenching her muscles as hard as she can and biting him on the side of his thick neck. 

Lloyd nestles into her like a child for a few moments while he gathers himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and she smiles sweetly down at him. She wants to put her thumb in his mouth, see if he latches on. 

He stares keenly into her eyes, deep brown into deep brown, as he starts to thrust. The hair on his chest curls with sweat and it drips down on to her bra, making little dark spots on the fabric. She moves her hands around his broad back to dig into his arse. 

As he thrusts she imagines each sensation as a different colour. When Lloyd hits the place it feels the best, she imagines a rich pool of swirling pink and lilac punctuated with bursts of red. He keeps going, and the lilac turns to deeper purple. The bursts of red pulse more insistently. 

Lloyd starts to make the sound he always makes when he’s about to come. 

“Don’t come in me if we’re going to your mam’s after,” she hisses into his ear. 

He pulls out and gropes behind him for the tissues in the glove box. He thrusts a few more times and then pulls sharply back, holding a tissue firmly around the top of his head as he spurts into it. 

Trixie opens the door with one hand, so he can toss the tissue onto the floor of the car park. The slight breeze makes her realise how hot and sticky they’ve made the car.  


She’s still pulsing, and she lifts her hips up against him to try and get him to take the hint. Her cunt feels like it’s on fire, all she wants is a couple of firm rubs against her clit. She makes a whimpery noise beneath him, putting it on a bit so he gets the message. 

“Did you come? I’ve got to make sure I’m sweet to my baby,” He’s slow and dopey now, with a gormless smile on his face.

“No, I’m close though,” Trixie tries to hold on to the feeling before it ebbs away. 

Lloyd slides down Trixie’s body so he is kneeling awkwardly in the footwell. Trixie hooks her fingers into the door handle to brace herself. He drags the flat of his tongue up her vulva and she shudders. She’s not afraid to grab his ears and use them to move his fat head up and down against her, wrapping her foot around his body. Trixie feels wet and open, and she wants to bark at him to replace his cock with his fingers or _something_. 

She closes her eyes and tries to forget Arthur Scargill’s voice on the car-radio and concentrate on the rough laves of his tongue. It reminds her of when they used to go paddling by the sea as children. She’d stand on the wet sand and dare the waves to charge up and knock her chubby little legs from under her. But instead the waves just lap weakly at her toes and retreat. She’s on the brink for what feels like eons. Reaching for it, daring it to happen. She imagines each sensation as slashes of violet and red, but they don’t quite explode like they sometimes do. She gets tired of the tension and gives him a quick tug on his ears again.

“That was really good baby,” she breathes.

Lloyd hauls himself up until he’s resting on her tits, and he uses the collar of her blouse to wipe around his mouth. She trails her fingers through the whorls of dark hair on his back.  


“Trixie, do you have to go to work in the morning?”

“Yes, Lloydy, why wouldn’t I?” 

“Well, the strike. You know…” 

“But I sell shoes to old ladies, mostly. Nothing to do with the pit.” 

Lloyd scratches his chin, and passes his lips over her nipple gently, “I dunno. I guess I thought everyone would be there. Dad wants me to help him make a sign when I get home for us to carry tomorrow,” He shrugs, looks a bit lost. 

“What is your slogan going to be?”

“Erm, _'Thatcher! You’re a cunt! Give me back my job so I can marry my girlfriend.'_ ”

Trixie startles a bit, starts struggling to a sitting position. It’s not easy with a 6’3” miner sprawled over her like an enormous fat cat.

“Well, that’s a pathetic way to propose,” Trixie laughs deliberately brightly. She wants him to change the subject as quickly as possible. 

When they came to the car park, the sky was still the electric blue of an evening just beginning. But now it’s fully dark, and every so often their faces are striped by the headlights of a passing car.

Lloyd joins in her laughter uneasily, “You know I wasn’t really proposing. I was only joking. But it’s what we’re working towards, isn’t it? It’s what we both want. You said it - ”

Trixie wraps her own arms around her stomach, “Yeah, of course. But in a few years.”

“We’re already 23 now, Trix. Most of the boys are already married. Some of them already have kids! I’m only waiting because I want to save. I want you to have everything you want, like Princess Diana.”

Trixie laughs for real, “I think you’ll need a better job than being a bloody miner to afford that. And I wouldn’t want all those stupid satin bows anyway.”

Lloyd tries to run his hand through her hair, but it’s stopped by the hair spray, “You know what I mean. I just want you to have the best of everything. You already look like you’re straight out of Hollywood.”

Trixie tells herself to calm down. She knows she’ll feel ready in a year or two. She knows it. When she’s twenty-five she will be ready. Twenty-five sounds very grown up, and it’s two full years away. If she starts now, she can achieve all she wants in two years. 

She pulls him in for a kiss and entwines their tongues leisurely. He still faintly tastes of her pussy.

She draws her hand down to where his dick is still flopping out of his trousers and on to his thigh. 

Trixie starts walking her fingers up the shaft of it, feeling it twitch between them. It starts firming up almost immediately, and Trixie can’t resist a smirk.

Soon, Lloyd’s dick is fully hard and she’s jacking it slowly, letting it fall through her loosely clenched fist.

“Uh,” he groans, “You’re amazing. Can I have you again?”

She manoeuvres them both so they’re lying sideways on the flat passenger seat, Lloyd pressed close to her back. He loops her leg over his arm and presses inwards. It doesn’t take long before he’s panting into her brand-new hair, pushing his hips erratically against her. She reaches down to touch her own clit, and clenches rhythmically. She imagines herself milking him into her. 

He groans into her neck, “Come on - come on, cariad. Come on, baby,” 

She turns her face to groan into the car upholstery. 

He obeys her and pulls out before he comes, this time spilling into his balled-up t-shirt. She never quite gets there, but she gets to a plateau where it feels kind of good to stop. 

“Lloydy, I’m tired,” she whines, shuffling he ass back into him.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says, “Mam doesn’t like it when you sleep over.”

Lloyd's mam is a right prude, she sees herself as the moral arbiter of the village. 

Trixie rolls her eyes, “You say that like she won’t be able to smell the sex on you, or clock that stupid grin on your face.”

Lloyd pulls a grumpy face as he pulls the lever to make the seat pop up again, and buckles the seatbelt around her.

Before she even realises that she’s falling asleep, Trixie finds herself standing in her lounge at home. Everything is as it usually is. The carpet is richly patterned with brown, pink and green swirls, and the red light is flickering in the electric fire. Her sister is there. But she’s wearing a leather blindfold just like the cover of _Touch_ and with Annie’s short red hair too. She’s zipping Trixie into a wedding dress that keeps getting smaller and smaller. Mabli is grabbing at Trixie’s skin, tying to squash her into the fabric, trying to pull the zips together as tightly as she can.

Trixie jerks awake as Lloyd pulls up outside their terraced house.

“There’s no lights on, Trixabelle. Let me find your keys.”

Lloyd digs around in her handbag for them and guides her to the door, helps her fumble with the lock. She gives him a last kiss and makes her way inside. The downstairs of the house is dark and silent, and Trixie tries to make her way upstairs as quietly as she can.

There’s a bar of light stretching diagonally across the hall carpet, coming from Mabli’s room. Trixie pushes her door open gently. Her sister is sat up in bed with her magazine over her lap. 

“You alright, Mabs? Did mum cool off in the end?”

“A bit,” Mabli shrugs, “It’s just this village. No one ever lets you think for yourself.”

Trixie nods. She thinks Mabli is talking bollocks about the strike, and she finds it suspicious that she’s only been sharing these views since she’s been dating Graham. But she agrees with Mabli on the basic principle of it. The graveyard is packed full of the same cluster of surnames and their descendants are still living in the same houses, living the same lives, as the people under the ground. It frightens her, sometimes, that she’ll lie underneath a headstone bearing “beloved wife and mother” and nothing much else. She tries to find a way of communicating this to her sister, and then gives up. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Trixie tries to sound as non-committal as possible. 

Trixie lingers in the doorway for a moment. Mabli flicks over the page of her magazine, apparently done with their conversation.

Trixie speaks again, “Mabs, In the car I had a nap and I dreamt that you had your hair like on that album cover,” Trixie points at _Touch._

“What? Like a dyke?” Mabli scoffs.

Trixie feels like something invisible has materialised between them. Downstairs, the kitchen window bangs shut in the breeze, and Trixie jumps.

“Is she?”

Mabli shrugs, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s got a great voice. But I wouldn’t be seen dead with that hair.”

“I quite like the colour,” Trixie suggests.

“Anyway,” Mabli’s look turns sly. “Talking of hair, there’s no mistaking what you’ve been up to. Yours looked amazing earlier, and now it’s like a bush.”

Trixie gives her the finger, but grins anyway, “Twice. We did it twice.”

“I’d never let Graham have it twice in the same day. You need to save it up for when you want something.”

Trixie laughs, “You’re a devious cow, Mabli Mattel. I don’t think I’ve been a very good big sister, if this is how you behave!” She backs out of her Mabli’s room and silently pads down the corridor to her own. 

The next morning, the mood in the house is optimistic. Trixie’s mum prepares sandwiches for the family. They’re made of grim squares of pappy white bread and chicken paste. Trixie’s dad pulls on suede gloves, a thick scarf and a hat. It’s more than he would wear usually, but he explains that he’ll be standing around outdoors, rather than working up a sweat down the pit.

“Have you got your placard ready?” asks Trixie.

He shrugs as he wraps the scarf higher around his chin, “No, I think it will all blow over soon. No point in making too much of a fuss about it.”

Trixie wears her usual sort of thing to work, a brightly patterned dress in fuchsia and violet, knee length and pleated, with a belt in a matching print. 

He father leaves first, meeting a group of equally swaddled men at the end of the street. Almost all of them are holding placards. Trixie spots one that says, “A Fair Day’s Work For A Fair Day’s Pay” in big black letters.

Trixie cranes her neck to look for Lloyd, but she can’t see him. She hopes that he has something nicer than chicken paste in his sandwiches. She tries to coax herself into a daydream of waving him off to work in the morning. She imagines herself standing on a freshly washed doorstep in pink fluffy slippers, her hair tied up in a wrap. But the day dream will only stay still for a second before it melts away. She might as well be imagining herself living on the steppes of Russia.

It’s much easier to imagine herself driving herself to work in her own Ford Grenada. She’d be doing something glamorous, like a Travel Agent. She’d have the radio on and she’d sing along as loudly as she liked as she careens down the motorway to and from work.

Shaking off her daydreams, Trixie finishes off her face with a thick layer of fuchsia lipstick and makes her way to the bus stop. Trixie boards the bus to take her to the nearest town, twelve miles away. The bus jerks violently as the driver hauls the shoddy vehicle up and down the hills of the village. It follows the road out of Onllwyn and out towards the mountains, shrouded in blue mist. The road turns back on itself and winds back down the valley to the town. 

Trixie stares out of the window at the familiar view of green fields bordered with tangles of rusty bracken. The bus stops at each line of squat, stone houses, and new people heave themselves up and into their seats. Most of the faces of the people around her are dimly familiar. If she doesn’t know them, she probably knows one of their relatives. 

Eventually, the bus crosses over the bridge into the town. It rumbles to a halt outside the war memorial, and Trixie makes her way to her shop. It’s just off the main square, tucked in between the bakery and the bookies. 

She’s been working part-time in the shop since she left school. Mrs Davis doesn’t need much assistance, and Trixie privately suspects that Mr Davis has hired Trixie mainly to keep her away from the drinks cabinet. It’s an old-fashioned shoe shop, their most popular items are fluffy house slippers and rubber soled work shoes with Velcro straps. 

“Trixie darling, could you please unload that big box for me? They need to go in the window.”

Mrs Davis has her hair swept up into her usual beehive, an impenetrable fortress of shining black hair. Heavy rhinestone earrings swing from her ears, and her neck is weighed down by an equally gaudy necklace. Her hands shake slightly on the counter and when Trixie gets close enough to kiss her cheek, she can’t help noticing the acrid tang of alcohol underneath lily of the valley. 

The first pair of shoes she lifts out are totally unlike anything else in the shop. They’re elegant and modern. They have triangular heels that taper down to barely anything, and toes that end in a rounded point. They’re made of bright violet suede, with teal vinyl lightning bolts stretching down the sides.

“These are lush,” Trixie breathes, running her fingers across the rough suede and the smooth vinyl.

“They’re from London, but I don’t know who will buy them now with this bloody strike going on. I’ve got to put at least £30 on them to make anything back.”

Trixie turns them over in her hands. They’re the nicest thing they’ve had in the shop for ages, but she can’t imagine who would have the money to buy them at that price. 

Mrs Davis continues, “Tell you what, if you can shift five pairs of them by the end of the month, you can take a pair home as a bonus!”

Trixie grins, “I won’t want them then, not if everyone else has them.”

Mrs Davis laughs, the sound deepened by years of smoking, “Fair enough, bach.”

Trixie spends the morning working on the window display for the new shoes. Mrs Davis lets her cut up big sheets of coloured paper into geometric shapes for a background. Trixie experiments with putting the shoes at different heights, tilting them this way and that. Mrs Davis stands on the street to peer through the window at what Trixie is doing, fag in one hand and wine glass in the other. She points at where she thinks the shoes should go and Trixie shuffles around on her hands and knees in the window box, trying to follow Mrs Davis’ finger. They end up in fits of laughter, Trixie’s hair and face covered in grey dust and Mrs Davis bent over wheezing on the pavement. 

She forgets about the strike until she’s on the bus on her way home, reading someone else’s newspaper over their shoulder. Trixie scours the faces of the miners, reproduced in tiny black and white dots. Most of the men are smiling, some holding sandwiches and flasks. Most of the pictures are of the bigger collieries, and she can’t see her father or Lloyd anywhere. Something in Trixie’s stomach seems to unclench. She’s seen awful pictures from other strikes, strikes that have been turned into riots by police with horses and heavy truncheons.

When she pushes open the door to her home, Trixie is greeted by the sound of her dad’s voice booming though the house, “100% participation. Can you believe it? Not one scab! Not even Yorkshire can match that. They’ve got the message. They can’t have missed it. We’re going to win this thing.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : There is male violence against women in this chapter. It's not domestic or sexual violence, but it is there. There is also misogynistic language and abuse of power.

**17th October 1984: Miners and other affiliated professions are still on strike across the UK. Violence between striking miners and police has broken out, most significantly at the Battle of Ogreave, which took place in June in South Yorkshire.**

"Mabs! What can I do with it? It looks awful!" Trixie holds up a lock of hair by her head, points at her dark brown roots.

"Ummm, switch your parting? Cosmo says that works."

Trixie flips half of her hair over on to the other side of her head but it just feels uncomfortable, and she quickly flips it back.

"Maybe I'll curl it," says Trixie.

"Mam says we’re not allowed to use the dryer or the curlers, because of the bills."

Trixie sighs deeply and falls back on the bed, "We're barely allowed to breathe, because of the bills." 

"Use a bandana?" Mabli suggests, "You can tie it in a little bow on the side like Madonna. I’ll even let you borrow my crucifix necklace." 

Her sister opens her drawer and lets Trixie rummage around for a scarf. Trixie finds a shiny black bandana, and quickly ties it into a floppy knot. It covers some of her dark brown roots, and distracts from the worst of the rest. She runs to the bathroom and wets her hands and runs them through her hair. She teases a few strands out and wraps them around her fingers, hoping they will dry in uneven, tight corkscrews like the _Like A Virgin_ video. 

It's their turn to cook dinner, but there's barely anything in the fridge for them to use. Instead, Mabli and Trixie take what they can find in the cupboards, pulling out tins of corned beef, peas and potatoes in brine. They’ve eaten corned beef hash for at least four nights a week since the strike began, but Trixie figures they’ll just have to eat it again. Mabli has the bright idea of adding a spoonful of violently yellow English mustard, and that cheers it up a bit. For the last ten minutes, Trixie moves it to top of the oven to make sure there are enough brown spiky bits. 

“Were there any leftovers, girls? I want them to make corned beef pasties tomorrow for the boys,” their mother asks. 

Trixie nods, “Should be enough for quite a few. I think the kitchen at the Miner’s Welfare Hall has a block of cheese leftover, so you can do some cheese and onion ones as well.” 

Her mam nods, spooning large tablespoons of the hash into her mouth. She looks exhausted. She has spent all day running the kitchen down at the Welfare Hall making lunch for the men on the picket line and parcelling up dinner for them to take home for their families. 

“Mabli,” their Dad starts, “Did you know that they’ve changed the rules so that miners can’t claim benefits now?” 

“No I didn’t,” says Mabli, rolling her eyes ever so slightly, “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Something other than the most significant political event happening in Wales since the beginning of this century?”

Mabli huffs, “Dad, there’s a famine going on in Ethiopia and IRA nutcases tried to murder the Prime Minister last week. There is more going on than the guff comes out of Arthur Scargill’s lying mouth.”

Her father looks down at his plate. He pushes and scrapes the potato and meat around with his knife so it forms a cube.

“I’m sorry to bore you, Mabs, but it’s important. The Government say that they’re cutting it because we get £15 a week off the Union, but they’ve not been able to hand out that kind of money for months.” 

“But me and Trix are still working, and we’re giving you almost everything that we earn,” says Mabli, “I don’t _mind_ doing that, but I was hoping to start saving.”

Trixie’s dad rubs his knuckles deep into his eye sockets. She watches his shoulders slump. 

He takes a deep breath and tries again, “Yes, but it’s getting more difficult for families with no-one else earning.”

“But they’ve got jobs,” she argues, “The dole is there to help people when they don’t have jobs.”

Their father speaks slowly, “But if they don’t strike they won’t have jobs to go to anymore.”

“It’s not the government’s fault that the mines are shutting. It’s like they’re punching themselves and asking the government, ‘Why are you hurting me?’”

“It’s nothing like that at all,” He snaps, “It’s about preserving our communities. And it’s embarrassing enough for me to have to ask my daughters for money, but imagine being a parent of young children and not being able to feed them. Fucking – “

He breaks off and fists his hands either side of his plate. 

Their mother interrupts, “Mabs, we were wondering if you’d be able to do some sort of question and answer session at the Hall. It would be really helpful, so that everyone understands what the changes mean and what else they’re entitled to, so they can get something at least.” 

“I’m not going to help people fiddle the system,” she protests. 

“It’s not about fiddling the system, Mabli. It’s just making sure that people are applying for everything they have the legal right to receive.”

“I can’t do it, mum. It’s really sad that people are suffering. But –"

“Mabli, you’re a typist in a solicitor’s office. You could get the proper documents, and people would listen to you. You’re so smart. You’ve always been so good at explaining things,” her mother implores, touching Mabli’s wrist. 

“Yeah, like when you showed me how to fix my record player that time,” encourages Trixie.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want anyone at work to think that I’m getting too political. And with Graham in the police…” Mabli trails off, “It just looks bad. I’m sorry.” 

Trixie’s dad sighs and gets up from the table, “I’m going for a smoke.” 

The front door bangs behind him and the women finish their meal in silence. Trixie can see his silhouette pacing back and forth on the other side of the net curtain. 

Even without her father glowering at the table, the atmosphere is still oppressive. Trixie had planned to meet Lloyd for a drive, and she can’t wait to escape to see him. She eats her dinner as fast as she can and stuffs her feet into her shoes without even undoing the laces.

Lloyd is standing on the end of the street, just as he said he would be. He’s looking the other way, and from a distance Trixie finds herself assessing him as she would a stranger. He's lost weight. The fabric of his t-shirt is no longer pulled taut between his broad shoulders. The sleeves don't cut into his upper arms in quite the same way. He looks more hunched over than she can remember him being. But when he looks up, the wide beam of his smile is just the same, and so is the way that he kneads his hands against the base of her spine while he holds her. 

He says, "I like your hair, what have you done with it?" 

Trixie shakes her head and smiles, "I just thought I'd try something new. Where are we going tonight?" 

Lloyd rubs his hand over the back of his neck, "Nowhere. I'm sorry. I've run out of petrol. I haven't got enough money to fill the tank up again," his face is flushed red, "I feel like such a knob." 

"You're not a knob. Everyone's skint. We'll just pretend we're in one of those old films, where you're supposed to believe that they're driving but they're clearly not." 

Lloyd opens the passenger seat door for Trixie, and walks around the car to let himself in. They sit in silence. Trixie properly looks at her boyfriend. He's got cheekbones she never noticed before. Grey circles under his eyes and tiny red veins on his nostrils too.

It's a dark evening, and the streets are deserted. She checks the windows for nosy old ladies, but she doesn’t see any peeking out through their curtains.

"Lloyd, baby, look at this -" 

Trixie plucks open the first two buttons of her blouse, and slips it off her shoulder enough that she can expose her cleavage. 

Trixie has repurposed a bra that she hasn't worn for years. It's too small at the back and it cuts into her skin, giving her two distinct rolls of fat. But she's not going to let Lloyd see the back. She’s chosen this bra for what it does for her at the front. Her breasts are spilling out of their cups; soft skin and veined areola overflowing. 

Immediately, his eyes regain a bit of their sparkle. She cups the back of his head and brings him to her, trusting that his dark head and wide shoulders will shield her from anyone that happens to peer in as they walk past. 

Lloyd’s mouth feels so good on her nipples. She can't help her hips from sliding forward on the seat. She’d like to let her brain clear for a little bit, let all her thoughts turn to kaleidoscopic colour. She lazily reaches over and starts rubbing her hand over the rough denim of Lloyd’s crotch. 

"Trixie, I'm sorry. I can't. I'm just exhausted." 

"Exhausted? I never thought I’d see the day when you were too tired for sex.”

She keeps rubbing him lightly through his jeans, but he remains soft under her fingers. 

Lloyd grabs her wrist, “No, Trixie. I’m too tired, I mean it.”

“I’m tired, I was on my feet in the shop all day,” Trixie’s voice takes on that nasal, whiny quality that she hates. She coughs to try and clear her throat, bring her voice down in pitch, “And then I made dinner for everyone, with enough left over for my mum to make pasties tomorrow.”

“And what do you think I’ve been doing? Sat at home on my arse?” Lloyd growls, his eyes darkening.

“No, I never said that. I just mean – “

Lloyd talks over her, “Fucking hell, Trixie, you don’t know what it’s like. Standing out all in the rain until you can’t even feel your feet any more. All the while the police are standing around laughing at you, eating their fucking Mars bars and shouting, ‘Get a real job!’ And then there’s the scabs. You remember Owen Hughes from the year above us at school? Earlier, he fucking walked past me fanning himself with his pay slip, the fucking little cunt.”

His voice breaks and he swallows hard. He barely ever says ‘cunt’, not even in reference to Trixie’s. 

“Lloyd I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – “

Lloyd grits his jaw like a little boy, it wobbles as it tries to hold back tears.

Trixie instinctively scrambles over the gearstick between them, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as they jerk irregularly. She’s only seen him cry on a few occasions before this; his mamgu’s funeral and the day he took a rugby ball to the bollocks when they were in school. Seeing him cry sends a stab of panic through her gut. She just wants to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” Trixie tries again, feeling useless. 

Lloyd’s shoulders are heaving now, and he lets out a pained whine before choking it off. She can feel the tension in his jaw from where their heads are pressed together.

“I’m thinking of going back to work,” he admits through gritted teeth.

“You can’t,” she says firmly.

“Trixie, I can’t cope with this no more. And we’ll never get married if I don’t start earning again,” he protests.

“I’d rather never get married than have a boyfriend who can’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. You don’t want to be a scab, Lloyd. Scabs get bricks thrown through their windows,” she implores.

“I know,” he laughs mirthlessly, “It’s me and the boys that put ‘em through windows.”

When he pulls back his eyes are red rimmed. The shoulder of her blouse is wet. 

Trixie opens the door of his glove-box and takes out the pack of cards stashed away there. She deals out enough cards for them to play cribbage, propping them on top of the dashboard.

“Let’s just play and relax for a bit, then go home,” she suggests gently, “I’ve got a bit of paper in my bag that I can keep score on.” 

Lloyd swallows firmly again and picks up the cards he has been dealt. He frowns a little as he concentrates on sorting his hand into order.

Trixie suddenly remembers something her mam said before dinner. “Apparently the Welfare Committee have got some good news about a donation that’s come in. They wouldn’t tell Mam until tomorrow’s meeting, but apparently it’s a big one.”

Lloyd nods over the top of his cards, “That’s good. You girls are doing a great job, you know.”

Trixie grins broadly at him, “Thanks, cariad. Now, shall we cut for box?”

Lloyd wins their game of cribbage, then he wins at whist and rummy too. He’s childishly excited, clenching his fists above his head like a boxer and insisting that Trixie calls him _“The Ultimate Champion”_ while he has another giggly rummage around inside her bra. 

Trixie walks herself home, keeping her pace as brisk as she can in the autumn wind. The nights have been getting progressively colder and she dreads what it would be like to stand on the picket line in December or January’s biting cold. She sends a silent prayer that it never comes to that. They have to win soon. Trixie wishes she could sleep next to Lloyd. She would like to let him warm his cold toes between her legs. She can’t stop replaying the sound of his sobs in her ear. 

The blue light of the TV is flickering behind the curtains of her family’s front room. It gives Trixie an uneasy feeling, as her parents are never usually up this late. The feeling intensifies as she unlocks the door and enters the silent hallway. She cautiously pushes the lounge door open. There’s a smashed cup lying on the floor next to the legs of the dining table, a dribble of tea staining the carpet. 

Trixie almost jumps when she turns to see her father sitting silently in front of the muted TV. He’s sitting in the dark, only the flickering screen illuminates his face. The TV is showing some old comedy that Trixie can’t place. She’s momentarily distracted by the two men on the screen running down a hill after a car that has rolled away from them. They’re windmilling their arms, almost tripping over their feet as they run.  


The camera zooms in on their gurning faces. The car gains speed as it skids down the hill. An old lady with a shopping trolley jumps comically out of its way. Her father’s eyes are glassy as they stare at the screen, his mouth grim. He doesn’t acknowledge Trixie’s presence.

Trixie wordlessly kneels and picks up as much of the splintered china as she can. She grabs a piece of newspaper and rolls the pieces up in it, so the bin men won’t cut their fingers in the morning. She moves herself between her dad and the telly, so he can't avoid looking at her.

“What happened with Mabli after I left?”

“She decided to sleep at Graham’s house.”

“Ah,” says Trixie. She wonders who threw the mug. 

“Just go to bed, Trixabelle,” Her father stares right through her. 

She argues, “But Dad –“

“Go to bed,” he says firmly.

Trixie goes to bed.  


***

Trixie’s mam tugs her out from her bed before the sun is even properly risen. She doesn't give Trixie any time to do her make-up, she just tells her to get herself dressed and into the car.

Trixie’s hair is a fucking state. She runs into Mabli's room to find something to get it off her face. The air in Mabli's room is still, and smells of dust and the ghost of Mabli’s perfume. Trixie leans down and looks closely at the picture frame next to Mabli’s bed. It holds a small picture of the family on a caravan holiday. Mabli and Trixie are pressed together, waving their dollies at the camera. 

There’s something not quite right about the room. It takes a while before Trixie can put her finger on it. When she does, she doesn’t know how she missed it. Mabli's prized record collection is missing, as is her best winter coat. She tries not to think about it just yet, and instead she just twists her long curls together and gathers them up into a baby pink scrunchie that is lying discarded on Mabli's desk.

They drive to the Miners’ Welfare Hall. The Hall has a large social room with an immaculately polished dance floor, a bar and a stage with real velvet curtains, some meeting rooms and a kitchen where the women can make food for the miners on the pickets. When they get there, Trixie's mam tasks Trixie with making a soup. The Hall has an industrial sized, steel saucepan and she fills it up with water, salt, vegetable scraps and chicken bones brought in by the other women. It will be a rough sort of soup, but it will be warm and savoury for the men on the picket line. 

Trixie's mam works on pasties. She rolls out sheets of shortcrust pastry, cuts out circled shapes to scoop the filling into, and then crimps the ends with a fork. 

When she’s done, Trixie’s mam joins the rest of the women in putting donated food packages together to be distributed around the families that are struggling. 

Trixie pulls out a small metal tin from the bottom of her handbag. A month or so ago she had taken it into the shoe shop, and asked Mrs Davis if she could put it on the till to collect donations. Most people only donate the pennies they get in change, although a couple of people have dropped a pound or two into the tin.

As the strike has dragged on, the tin has filled up more and more slowly. Trixie began to lose faith she would ever reach the top. Sometimes, there are days when she might only see three customers. She spends more time dusting the shoes on the shelves than she does selling them. Black leather fades to grey in the window. 

The only person that has attempted to buy the suede heels that Trixie had loved was the wife of a scab. Mrs Davis has told her firmly that she wasn’t welcome as a customer until her husband was back on the pickets. She’d stuffed her dirty money back in her hand bag and walked rigidly out of the shop. 

Trixie knows that her job only exists as an act of charity. It’s painfully clear that Mrs Davis doesn’t need her. Neither Mr or Mrs Davis have said as much, but Trixie knows that they would have laid her off months ago if they hadn’t known her dad was striking. 

Trixie hands the tin over to one of the older ladies of the Welfare Committee, who tips it all out on a tea-towel and starts counting through it with her. She gets into the rhythm of it, stacking up the coins in neat piles. They count up to £50, and Trixie was beginning to feel a bubble of pride rising in her stomach.

Hefina, one of the oldest and most indefatigable members of the Welfare Committee, clears her throat. “We’ve been given a donation by a group in London. They said over the phone that they had over a couple of grand for us,” she says.

A collective gasp goes around the room. Trixie’s mother drops a can of baked beans, which rolls off the table and across the floor. 

“A couple of grand? Fuckin’ hell Hef,” says one of the other older women.

“They’re a self-organised, left wing group,” she says, and a murmur of appreciation goes around the room.

Hefina picks up a piece of paper off of the table, “Let me make sure I read this right, they’re called ‘Lesbians and Gays Support The Miners?’”

Trixie splutters, “Lesbians and Gays?”

Hefina stares her dead in the eyes, “Well that’s what they’ve written here on the letter.”

Trixie shuffles a bit on the spot, and looks down at the table, “I didn’t mean nothing, I just don’t know why they’re raising money for us.”

“Well, this young man Mark has written, and very eloquently too I might add, that they feel that we’re united against a common enemy," She reads from the letter, “ _It’s important that if you’re defending communities, you’re not just defending one community. It’s really illogical to say, ‘I’m gay and I’m into the gay community but I don’t care about anything else’!_ ”

As she reads, the group murmur and nod their agreement around the table.

“So we’ll invite them down to say thank you, and make it a bit of a do?” Hefina asks. Her voice lilts upwards at the ends but Trixie doubts that it’s a genuine question.

“And will they introduce them themselves like that? The, er, lesbians and the gays?” A woman asks from over by the ovens.

“I expect so,” says Hefina. “Excellent,” She continues brightly, “I’ll write back and extend the invitation immediately.”

As Trixie stacks the coins, she can’t stop thinking about the visit. She kneads it over in her head like a lump of dough. She thinks of the pictures of London nightclubs she’s seen in magazines, pop stars smiling sleekly as they make their way unsteadily down the pavements and into darkened limousines. 

Trixie wonders if the Londoners will bring any good magazines with them, magazines that even the big W.H.Smith in Cardiff doesn’t stock. Surely at least the men will be fashionable, she’s heard that there are a lot of gay hairdressers. She hopes some of the gays and lesbians are young. She starts to think of clothes she could wear in different combinations, fabric she could unpick and make into something new.

Her mam swaps out a tray of browned, crisp pasties for the last tray of unbaked ones. When she’s done she wipes the sweat from her forehead and sidles up to Trixie, untying her apron from around her waist.  
Her mother asks, “How much have you counted now?” 

“£95. Not nearly as good as the bloody gays and lesbians,” she answers, sounding petulant even to her own ears.

Her mam smiles kindly, “But there’s more of them than there are of you, and they’ve been shaking buckets all over London!” 

Trixie shrugs, “What do you think they’ll be wearing? The lesbians?”

Her mother makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, “I’m not sure, cariad. I think the women tend to be quite sensible dressers. Lots of boots and jeans.”

Trixie nods, unsure if she’s relieved or disappointed.

Her mam grabs a handful of copper coins and starts stacking them. She giggles suddenly, “Me and your father saw a couple of them holding hands in Swansea. They were both wearing shorts with shirts tucked in, and they both had more hair on their legs than on their heads! Their legs were like fucking tarantulas, if you can believe! I said to your father, ‘Emyr, I think maybe they’ve got the right idea. I don’t know how many hours of my life I’ve wasted shaving my legs!’ Do you know what he said, Trix?”

“What?” says Trixie obediently.

“’Well that’s one way of keeping the heating bills down in winter!’”

Her mother and the old lady next to her burst into peals of laughter. She repeats what Trixie’s mam has said, shaking her head to herself.

“He’s a funny one, that Emyr,” she wheezes. 

Trixie manages a smile. She wonders if the women heard them laughing, if they crossed to the other side of the street or if they’re inured to it. 

She looks down at her hands and sees that the copper coins have rubbed black stains on her skin. 

“Are we nearly done?” she blurts, “I need to go and wash my hands.”  


***

When the rest of the food is prepared and packaged up, Trixie and the other women clamber on to the minibus owned by the Welfare Hall, and head to the picket line. Trixie helps one of the ladies lift her pram onto the minibus without disturbing her sleeping baby. 

Trixie had last gone to the picket line in the spring. There had been a jovial atmosphere at the beginning of the strike, some of the miners had even brought whistles and wind-up radios with them. But it had quickly gone sour, and both Lloyd and her father had told Trixie that they would rather her stay away from the pickets. The men go down to the pickets every day to stop other workers from working and undermining the strike. The police are ostensibly there to protect the scabs that choose to work from the miners on the pickets. However, Lloyd and her dad have told Trixie that the police mostly spend the day winding the miners up. 

Despite the hours of work the women have already put in, the sun is still hanging low in the sky. The weak autumn sun has risen enough to illuminate the hills with an marmalade glow, but a fog still hangs around them.  


The men are already on the picket line, leaning their placards against their legs to conserve energy.

“Trixie!” she heard Lloyd shout, “What are you doing here?” 

She crosses the car park to him and kisses her boyfriend. His nose is freezing against her cheek. She gives the boys around him a cursory nod. 

“We’ve come to drop off your lunch for you to have later,” she says, pinching his rapidly shrinking stomach between her thumb and forefinger.

“What is it?” he says, with childish excitement.

“Soup and corned beef pasties.”

“Did you make the pasties?” He says, wrinkling his nose.

“I thought you were signing up to a lifetime of my cooking,” she teases back, “But no, my mam made them.”

He pumps her fist, “Oh yes, Mrs Mattel! What a legend.”

Trixie rolls her eyes at him, “Maybe I’ll move my mam in when we get married. Then you’ll be happy.”

“Only if we can send her out for a walk when I need you,” Lloyd pulls Trixie in to him, cupping her arse in her hands. Her parents are around somewhere, but there are enough people around that she’s confident they won’t notice.

Just as she relaxes as into his arms, he shoves her sideways.

“Lloyd, what the f—"

“Look!” he hisses. “Here they fucking come.”

A line of policemen in jackets and caps swarm over the hill like ants on a picnic. They assemble in front of the pickets, standing with feet spread apart and hands clasped in front of them. They stare through the miners. Trixie is about as tall as most of them and she bobs about in front of them, trying to make them catch her eye. At first, she just sees the navy uniform and can barely differentiate between them at all. But the longer she looks, the more she notices the differences in their faces. She’s sure that one of them was in the year above her at school. She vaguely remembers him being good at maths and the trumpet.

Lloyd is the tallest person on the picket and he makes sure he keeps his eyeline skimming over their flat, chequered hats. He tries to maintain the same blank, lightly disapproving look that they give the miners, but the corner of his mouth keeps twitching. Trixie squeezes his hand to encourage him. The eyes of one of the policemen keep flickering up to Lloyd’s face nervously.

One of the miners shouts, “They’re coming!” pointing at the road the other side of the police. Two black taxis are rounding the corner. That’s the signal for the picketers to raise their placards. Trixie hefts a large wooden one reading ‘COAL NOT DOLE’ in the air.

The taxis crawl up the road to the mine. The workers scurry out of the cars and past the picket line. They attempt to stuff their hands in their pockets, bend their backs, turn the collars on their coats to cover their faces. They'll do anything to avoid looking at their striking miners.

The sound is deafening. It’s louder than any rugby match Trixie’s ever been to. It's louder than the singing at her Grandfather’s funeral. Bodies press against her from all sides, and she’s shuffled to-and-fro by the crowd.

No two picketers shout the same thing, it’s a deafening mixture of political slogans and personal lamentations. 

Trixie notices a policeman flinch as Lloyd bellows at one of the scabs from the very depth of his stomach, “We used to take our breaks together,” He heaves a breath, “You’ve got a little girl! She’s called Eluned! What does Eluned think?”

The scab himself doesn’t respond to Lloyd, just keeps his eyes down and walks as fast as he can away from the picket.

After the scabbing workers disappear from view, Trixie takes a few steps away from the picket line. Her arms sag with the weight of the heavy wooden sign. She lets the placard slip until it rests on her shoulder, before finally setting it down on the floor. Lloyd lights two fags and hands her one.

The police break formation and some of them walk over to their vans. As soon as she doesn’t have their black-clad bodies crowding her, Trixie can breathe more deeply. 

The policemen chuckle with each other, rooting around in a box at the back of their van, retrieving parcels of tin-foil. They encircle the protesters again before unwrapping the parcels to reveal bacon baps. The smell is rich, savoury and unmistakable. Trixie hasn’t had a bacon bap for what feels like forever.

She watches them bite into their rolls with growing resentment, only smirking when one of them dribbles grease down the middle of his tie. The smell makes her stomach growl. 

Lloyd nudges her, “just ignore them. They do this every morning.”

He puts his finger on his nose, bending the soft tip of it up to expose his nostrils and oinks at the Officer nearest him. Trixie bites hard on the inside of her cheek to stifle a giggle. 

After they finish their breakfast, the policemen have a quick fag. None of them smoke it all the way down to the butt. They get halfway down and then flick them off down the car park. Lloyd’s eyes trail jealously after the half-smoked cigarette, and Trixie knows he's longing to pick it up to save for later. 

The next group of scabs arrive on foot. They are more brazen than the ones that scuttle in from the taxi. They saunter slowly past the picketers, lobbing insults with practiced ease.

One of them stops and walks directly behind the line of policemen, staring between their red ears at the miners.

“Hey, Mark—" The scab shouts to the man standing the other side of Lloyd. 

The miner steps closer to the policemen to look at the scab through the gap between their heads. He’s so close that his chest almost touches the gold buttons on their uniforms. The policemen keep their eyes staring impassively into the middle distance. 

The scab caws, “Your wife wishes you’d go back to work so she can get back to shagging Dai the Butcher in the afternoons. You know she’s been his slampiece for years.”

The man roars and tries to launch himself at the scab, but the policemen catch him. He flails against them, hand clawing at the air as he tries to scramble up and over them. He bends his knees and squares his shoulder to push through the line, but they squeeze closer together and he hasn’t got a chance. The scab takes a few steps backwards, smirking. 

One of the policemen unsheathes the wooden truncheon at his hip, and Lloyd yanks Mark back by the arm.

“Mark, come on – don’t be a moron.”

Mark is still seething, twisting his shoulders to escape Lloyd’s grip. His cap falls off his head and he accidentally tramples over it, leaving a muddy footprint on the fabric.

Lloyd addresses the police, “He’ll settle down, I promise. He’s a good lad, he’d never hurt a fly.”

Mark jerks his shoulders upwards to look the policeman right in the eye. He tries to spit but shouting has made his throat dry; he can only dredge up a little wad of saliva and it doesn’t fly far. It dribbles down his chin instead. 

The officer nearest them shakes his head and makes his way back to the van. Trixie sees him reach for the radio on the dashboard.

“Mark!” Lloyd shouts, “Just ignore him. He’s always been a nasty cunt. Come on, settle down or they’ll get the fucking horses in.”

Trixie tries to help, “He’s just winding you up, Mark! You know Sharon would never do that!”

Trixie is lying. Everyone knows Sharon had been shagging Dai the Butcher for years. 

They were also too late to avoid the horses.

Unlike Mabli, Trixie had never been the sort of girl to beg for a pony. Even when her family had gone camping, she’d never tried to feed apples to the wild ponies or stroke their long manes. 

She remembers feeling uneasy when their bristly lips enclosed Mabli’s hand as she fed them sugar lumps. But that unease could never compare to the sheer horror she feels when the police horses arrive at the picket. They’re unbelievably massive. Even Lloyd has to crane his neck to look at them. The morning sun reflects off their black hair, showing muscles flexing under their skin. Even from this distance, Trixie can smell their shit, and hear the buzzing of the flies landing on their eyelashes. 

Two of the policemen on horseback approach Lloyd and Mark. Lloyd immediately steps back, holding his hands up in surrender. Mark seems to go floppy without Lloyd holding him and the police grab and cuff him, before bundling him off. He doesn’t resist, lets them move his body like a ragdoll into the van. 

“Any more trouble, my boy,” the policeman spits at Lloyd, “And you’ll be joining your mate in the back of my fucking van.”

Trixie can’t help herself from shouting, “He was trying to calm Mark down, you dickhead!”

One of the other policemen brings his horse over to Trixie in a slow canter. He’s sitting so far above her that Trixie can’t make out his face, it’s cast into shadow by the brim of his helmet. 

Trixie looks at the horse’s face instead. Its nostrils are as wide as Trixie’s palm, and Trixie can feel hot air gusting out of them at her. With great effort, she keeps her feet planted on the floor. 

The policeman peers down at Trixie, her mam, and the other women from the Committee. “Boys, we got some of Scargill’s slags here!”

She knows that voice.

“Graham!” she shouts. “He was only trying to help, I swear!” 

Graham leans down, so he can scrutinise Trixie’s face more closely.

“You should go home, Trixie! This isn’t a place for a woman. You need to find yourself a boyfriend with a proper job, Mabli doesn’t need to worry about any of this. I’m going to take her out for an Italian on the weekend.”

Trixie is about to shout back that she can’t imagine a job more _proper_ than mining, when out of the corner of her eye she sees the baby throw its rattle out of its pram and onto the ground. 

The wind catches the flimsy plastic toy. It blows through the gate and down the drive a few metres, before it rolls to a stop.

The baby wails, and one of the miners instinctively runs after the rattle to rescue it.

The second he steps over the gate, three of the officers on horseback draw their truncheons. 

“We’ll fucking have you for trespassing!” Graham yells.

The miner stops in his tracks, sloping back into the picket line without a word. The wind picks up the rattle again and blows it further down the track. It bounces over the gravel before landing in a puddle.  


Trixie’s read in the newspaper that some of the women up north have been leading the Police in a merry dance on the picket line. She has an idea.  


“Mam, look after the baby a minute,” Trixie shouts. 

Mared Mattel takes the child out of the pram and cwtches her against her chest, offering the baby her knuckle to gnaw on rather than the rattle.

Trixie grabs the hand of the baby's mother firmly. She runs until she’s dragged her over the line of the gate. She’s read that the police can’t arrest the women for this, like they can arrest the men.

Trixie takes a deep breath and starts singing an old song she remembers her Dad singing to the tune of _’O, Christmas Tree’_ , “The people’s flag is deepest red, er – something -something martyrs dead!”

The girl takes Trixie’s other wrist and grips it just as hard as Trixie is gripping hers, then starts spinning them in a circle as they sing. The crowd cheers them on. She tries to sing louder, pulling up big breaths from the bottom of her stomach. 

“I only know the chorus of that one!” The girl yells, as she spins Trixie faster and faster. 

Trixie laughs with pure exhilaration. She tries to keep her eyes fixed on the girl’s face as they spin. She’s petite and freckly, with wide grey eyes and two slashes of blue eyeshadow above them. 

“Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer!” Trixie shouts, jumping to the chorus.

The other girl finishes, “We keep the red flag flying here! Woo!”

They stop spinning and Trixie lurches dizzily before ending her pose with one arm thrown straight in the air, the other flicking out at her side. She beams out at the picketers as they cheer the two on. Lloyd is jumping on the spot, and Trixie feels a swell of pride.

The girl wheezes, but she takes Trixie’s hand again. Her fingers are soft and warm, “What shall we sing next?”

Trixie thinks for a second before settling on a song. She starts moving her hips from side to side, clicking her fingers like she’s seen George Michael and the backing dancers do in the music video. She can’t think how the song starts so she just starts in the middle, “Wake me up, before you go-go! Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo!” 

The other girl starts swaying her hips and clicking her fingers in time with Trixie. She smiles broadly at Trixie’s face as she sings, “You’re my lady, I’m your fool. It makes me crazy when you act so cool!” 

Trixie takes the girl’s hand and raises it above her head, leading her into a spin beneath Trixie’s arm. She whoops as Trixie spins her, ponytail flying straight out behind her head. Trixie can smell her perfume. It smells strongly of vanilla, reminding Trixie of a cake baking in the oven. Her smile is so elated that Trixie can't resist twirling her underneath her arm again, and again. The girl stumbles and then falls back, clutching her head. 

They sing together, “It’s cold out there, but it’s warm in bed. They can dance, but we’ll stay home instead!”

It's been so long since Trixie had laughed until her lungs had burned with it. 

Then Trixie hears one of the policemen say to Graham, “She needs a better bra, that one. Look at those udders swinging!”

Trixie’s stomach falls. She could double over with nausea. She casts them both the nastiest look she can muster up. Graham holds his hands mid-way down his chest in an imitation of breasts and swings them back and forth with a grotesque smile on his face. 

“Ignore them, they're just pigs! Come on! Let’s do _Sospan Fach_ ,” The girl sings the silly rhyme that Trixie remembers from school, but she can’t bring herself to join in. She wants to hide, wants to pull on the biggest jumper she can find and disappear.

She tries to swallow down the blistering anger surging in her gullet. But instead she heaves a breath and shouts, “Cunt! You’re a cunt, Graham!”

“I’ve had enough of this,” He shouts, and forces his horse towards Trixie. 

“Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tân….” The girl’s voice trails away. 

They are only just beyond the gates, so the horse barely gets its speed up past a canter. Nevertheless, the thump of its hooves on the gravel still makes Trixie’s knees weaken. Trixie’s heart races as she looks into the horse's rolling eyes. She can see the whites of its eyes, threaded through with red veins. It whinnies as Graham urges it on, exposing long yellow teeth and repulsively pink, shiny gums. 

Trixie is so distracted by her fear of the horse that she doesn’t see Graham’s truncheon until he starts to bring it down over her head. It whistles as it cuts through the air. Trixie shrieks and lobs herself to the side. The black wood cuts down in front of her face, inches from her nose. She staggers backwards, knees finally giving out. 

She lands heavily in a brown puddle. Her arse is firmly in the water, with her legs splayed out in front of her. Her hands burn from where she tried to break her fall, and cold water seeps through her jeans and into her knickers. 

The horse continues to snort and stamp, and she folds her arms across her head to shield herself from any further blows.

Graham snarls down at her from atop the animal, “Now get back to your mother before I do it again, bitch.”

Choking down her pride, she scrambles to her feet and runs back to the picket.

Lloyd grabs her first, holding her against his chest as she hides her scalding face.

Around her, the picketers scream at the police, start pushing against the line of officers on foot. 

“You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

“The girls did nothing wrong – “

“Fucking scum!”

“We’re from the same village!”

It’s too much, too loud. Trixie’s head is spinning with the noise. She tries to push her face further into Lloyd’s jacket. Her nose hits his sternum, and she wishes he was as fat as he used to be. He strokes over the back of her head. She doesn't cry, she won't allow it. 

“Do you want me to come home with you?” He murmurs.

“No, I’m fine,” Trixie can’t help whining. She wishes she could. She hates herself for making a scene in front of everyone. 

She looks back at the gate. Trixie’s new friend has run back to her baby, and the small rattle lies forgotten among the gravel.  


***

Trixie feels wobbly on her feet all the way home. When she reaches the house she stumbles through to the kitchen and fills the kettle.

She’s rooting around in the cupboard for her favourite mug, when she hears footsteps in the room above the kitchen. It must be her sister. Her heart quickens as she makes her way up the stairs. She's got a thousand things she wants to say to Mabli, and she finds herself muttering them as she stamps up the stairs. Her arse is still uncomfortably wet.

When she gets to the doorway of Mabli’s room, the words turn to dust in her throat.

Mabli’s room is startlingly empty. Mabli herself is crouching down by the bookshelf, pulling books off the shelf and packing them into boxes in methodical rows. The picture of the four of them on holiday is still on her desk, although almost everything else from the top of the desk is gone.

“What the fuck is going on, Mabli?”

Her sister huffs and rolls her eyes, “What does it look like?” 

“You’re not moving out, are you?”

Mabli stands and smooths down her dress. She’s wearing a long skirt with a jacket that makes her look older than she is.

“I’m going to live with Graham,” Mabli says coldly. 

“How can you do that? After everything mum and dad have done for us? Trixie asks.”

“What have they done? Dad won’t get off his arse and go back to work. Mum is too busy collecting cans of beans to give to other people –“ 

Trixie seizes the photo frame off Mabli’s desk and surges towards her sister. She brings it sharply down over Mabli’s head as hard as she can, stopping just inches away from her scalp. 

Her sister flinches, “Trixie, stop!”

“Graham tried to hit me like that today,” Trixie’s voice is cold and flat, “He called me a bitch and made fun of my tits.”

Somehow, the last one is the one that smarts the most. She crosses her arms over her chest as she tells Mabli, the shame sitting on her shoulders like a wet coat. 

Mabli half-cowers against the side of the desk. “But what did you do to provoke him, Trixie? Graham has told me they act like animals on that picket, Dad and Lloyd included.” 

Trixie thinks about lifting the frame above her head again. This time, she’d like to bring the corner of the frame right down onto Mabli’s temple. She’d like to see her sister bleeding all over that dowdy jacket. Her hands are shaking with the desperate urge to do it. 

Instead, she turns and walks into her own room, shutting her door in her sister’s face.

Mabli shouts through the door, “There’s something not right about you, Trixie!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that next chapter will involve the introduction of at least one rather more familiar character.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : In this chapter there is a lot of alcohol drinking and a lot of smoking. There are also a few incidences of homophobic and transphobic language.
> 
> Oh & butt is a Welsh term of endearment.

**3rd November 1984: The strike continues, but more and more miners return to work. The percentage of striking miners is much higher in Wales than in England, however. Public perception of the strike continues to get worse, especially after newspapers claim that Scargill asked both Libya and the USSR for money.**

On the day the gays and the lesbians arrive, Trixie spends the whole of the afternoon in the shoe shop. She only sells two pairs of house slippers all day, and she spends most of her time doodling on the notepad next to the till and staring out of the window. 

She doodles women thinner and more delicate than she is, in knee length blazers strung with chains and rhinestones. 

Despite her boredom, Trixie would rather be doing this than joining her mother in cleaning the Welfare Hall. Hefina had pulled rank, informing them that she wouldn’t let them leave until the Welfare Hall was in an appropriate state for guests. 

Hefina wouldn't tolerate any white water marks on the tables, or sticky spots on the carpet. She would certainly not tolerate cigarette burns in the leather seats. Trixie expects that her mam has spent the entire day polishing, sewing and scrubbing in preparation for the arrival of Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. 

Mrs Davis lets Trixie leaves 45 minutes early, to her delight. She lets Trixie go with a cheeky wink, “I’ll see you later, Mr Davis and I are swinging by to see what those poofters are like!” 

By the time she reaches her house, her father had already left to go to the Welfare Hall. She supposes that he’s keen to get a start on the pints. 

Trixie changes as quickly as she can manage. She’s picked out a mini dress with a ruffly skirt in a vibrant magenta colour. She bought it in the sales last Christmas, but it's the most fashionable thing she owns. Her mother has let her cut the fingers off her grandmother’s old lace church gloves. Her hands are much wider than her grandmother’s, and the lace is prickly on her palms but Tixie doesn’t mind the discomfort too much. Her nails are painted bright pink, and they look pretty when Trixie poses in the mirror with her hands on her hips. 

Sitting in front of the mirror in her room, Trixie brings a mint green eye-shadow all the way up to her eyebrows before stroking on two lines of blush high on her cheeks. Finally, she fastidiously dots a small mole above her lip with the tip of her eyeliner pencil. 

When she walks into the Welfare Hall, she can't deny that the Committee have made an extraordinary difference. It usually smells of beer, old fashioned soap and stale piss. But tonight, Trixie can only smell the lemony tang of Flash cleaning fluid. 

The tables are buffed and shining. The grey dust has been swept off the red curtains. Every pint that Trixie can see has a beer mat underneath it. 

She finds her parents in their usual seats and squashes herself between the two of them, stealing a gulp of her dad's beer. 

"Have they arrived yet?" 

"No," her mam says, "They're lost! Hefina's taken a torch and gone out with a search party!" 

Trixie gets in another round of pints for them all, stopping on the way to give Lloyd a kiss on the cheek. He's sat nearer the bar with his mates from the colliery, and he makes a show of wolf whistling to Trixie as she crosses the hall to him. When she leans over the table to kiss him, he slides his hands under the ruffles of her dress and up her solid thighs. 

She slaps his fingers away, "Not now, Lloyd! I've got to get Mam and Dad a pint before the gays arrive." 

She orders three pints of the cheapest beer on tap, and makes her way back to their usual table. 

Trixie is talking to her Dad when her mother gasps softly, looking up at the door. 

Trixie’s head snaps up to the door, keen to get the first glimpse of their exotic visitors. 

But the gays must still be lost in the mountains somewhere, because it's Mabli standing in the doorway.  


Trixie has barely seen Mabli since she left to stay with Graham, and her first thought is that she looks expensive now. She's finally dyed her hair blonder than Trixie’s, like she’s wanted to for years. She’s had it permed into tight little curls and piled it all up messily on top of her head, so she can show off the wide, elegant neckline of her top. Mabli's collarbones are more pronounced than they used to be, and a delicate golden locket hangs between them. Her cheeks have lost their roundness and their red sheen. She’s only 19, but she could pass for the older sibling. 

Mabli makes her way straight to their table, "Mam. Dad. Trixie. Can I sit with you?" 

Trixie's Mam looks to their Dad. He nods curtly, and Mabli cautiously folds herself in the space on the bench next to him. She places her handbag on her lap, and busies herself wrapping and rewrapping the strap around her hand. 

“Can I get a round in for everyone?” Mabli asks, taking out her wallet. The leather is stamped with the Jane Shilton logo, and Trixie can see the purple tip of a £20 note poking out of the corner. 

“I just did, sorry,” Trixie says curtly. She stares at Mabli, eyebrow slightly raised. 

Mabli stares back, “Don’t worry about it.” 

Trixie holds her eyes until Mabli blinks and looks back down at her handbag. 

“I’m going to ask if they’ve got any Mateus Rose,” Mabli finally grinds out. She stalks off to the bar, returning a few minutes later with a glass of wine. She moans about the fact that it’s room temperature, but soon gives up and sips it in silence. 

Hefina eventually marches in triumphantly, the long-awaited gays tramping in behind her. They linger in the shadows of the entrance hall, and Trixie leans out of her seat as far as she can to try and see them. She’s disappointed to see that overall, they’re quite nondescript. Some of the boys are willowy and move like dancers, curling their hands into the air as they talk. There are only a few women in the group; most of them are wearing long, flowing skirts in earthy shades, but Trixie catches a glimpse of a short figure in a leather jacket at the back of the group. 

Trixie drags her eyes away to take a look at the other people in the Welfare Hall. A small number of people have crossed their arms or pointedly continued their conversations. But most are smiling at the guests, there’s even a smattering of applause. 

The leader of LGSM wears a dangling feather earring in his left ear, and a leather jacket which sparkles with badges and buttons. He has an acuity that he wears lightly, and a soft Irish accent. 

Dai Donovan, the defacto leader of the striking miners, speaks first, and hands over the mic to LGSM’s leader. The leader of LGSM is only about Trixie’s age, but he carries himself with a confidence she admires. Trixie tries to listen politely to them both, but the speeches are the same ones that Trixie has politely listened to men deliver since she was so young that her parents would let her nap under the table, coats draped carefully over her.

After the speeches the members of LGSM clump together at the bar, and most of the regular patrons go back to talking with their family and friends. Trixie tries hard not to feel underwhelmed. Her parents finish their pints and swing their coats over their shoulders, heading home in time to watch the news. 

Mabli strokes her hand over Trixie’s knee, “I know it’s ‘Lesbians and Gays Support The Miners,’ right. But which one is _that_ supposed to be?” 

Mabli points one of her long nails over at a woman at the bar. She wears a boxy leather jacket that obscures the shape of her torso, and baggy jeans over narrow hips. Her jeans are rolled up to expose a pair of Dr Martens, and she stands with her feet planted firmly and widely on the floor. 

“Go and talk to it, Trix. Go on!” 

Trixie rolls her eyes, “Shut up, Mabli. You might be small minded, but I’m not.” 

Trixie walks across the dancefloor and over to the bar. The girl has walked to the other end of the bar to flag down Carly the barmaid, and Trixie takes advantage of her being on her own. 

“Hiya butt, you come all the way down from London then?” Trixie asks, trying to sound casual. 

When she turns around, the first feature that Trixie notices are her pale, black-ringed eyes under a strong brow bone, then a nose which tapers to a sharp point. Her elfin chin is offset by proud cheekbones, and her lips would probably be full and plush if they weren’t also dry and bitten. Her hair is golden, shorn tightly to her head at the sides and the top is shaved so it’s totally flat. It’s got to have been done by a barber, rather than a hairdresser, and Trixie wants to press down on the flat top, see if her hair is as fine and fluffy as it looks. Trixie takes in the slivers of her wrists poking out of her leather cuffs, the belt pulled in to the tightest notch, and the cracked leather boots that look older than the girl herself. 

“Yeah,” the girl answers. She flicks her fag ash in the heavy crystal ashtray set on the bar. 

“My name’s Trixie, I’m from just over there.” She waves her hand in the direction of her house. She’s suddenly painfully aware of how wide her mouth flaps open when she speaks, how much the words lilt up and down. 

The girl takes a deep chug of her pint, “I’m Katya.” 

Trixie was expecting the gays and the lesbians to be more talkative. Katya’s steady silence makes her want to ramble. 

She gives in to the urge, “It’s amazing, what you’ve done for us. It hasn’t been too bad for my family, like, ‘cause me and my sister is earning. But, like, the jumpers you sent and the money and everything, it’s fantastic. My mam said some people have been burning shoes and everything to keep warm -” 

That seems to shock Katya into speaking, and she shakes her head so vigorously that the line of silver hoops through the shell of her ear jingles, “It’s disgusting. Thatcher and her vultures are fucking starving their own people out.” 

Trixie notices that Katya’s voice lilts almost as much as her own does, but her sentences all end a bit lower than how they start, rather than rising up like questions. 

She can’t help asking, “Where to are you from? Originally, like. I can tell you’re not from London.” 

“Nah, bab. I’m from just outside Birmingham.” 

“I heard the West Midlands are just like Wales but flatter,” Trixie jokes weakly. 

Katya’s nose wrinkles like she’s considering it, but she’s not so sure.“So how come you got involved with LGSM then?” Trixie asks.

Katya manages a small snort of amusement, “My Da, my brother, and my uncle are all miners. And they might not give a shit about me, but I don’t want any of them to starve.” 

Trixie blinks at her, “Why wouldn’t they give a shit?” 

Katya stares at and her stands up properly, taking her elbow off the bar for the first time since she started speaking. She silently gestures up and down her body with her hand. 

“Right.” Trixie can’t think what to say, “So what else do you do when you’re up London?” 

“I’m an artist,” 

"Ace! I like art," Trixie says. 

"Yeah? What sort of stuff to do you do?" 

Trixie thinks of the last proper painting she did, with oils and turps and a canvas. It was years ago. It might even have been when she was sitting her A-Levels. For her last examination, she’d painted her Mam and Mabli like divas out of Dynasty. She’d worked for hours, trying to capture their characters in their faces and adding flecks of white and yellow oil paint to make their dresses look like real silk. 

"Just, uh, pictures," Trixie manages. 

"Good for you," says Katya dully. She slumps back to resting her chin on her palm, elbow on the bar. 

"What about you?" 

Katya slides her eyes to meet Trixie’s. "I print, but I also do performance art. Last week me and some friends did a piece outside the South African Embassy. We got them pretty riled up, but I think most of the tourists thought we were only clarting about," 

Trixie has seen on the news that there have been a lot of protests about the apartheid in South Africa, and the imprisonment of Mandela. But other than that, she's lost. 

Katya thumbs at a small beaded badge on her lapel, "I made this." 

It's an odd shape made of small red beads strung on wire. It looks kind of like a wishbone with a ball sack hanging inside of it, and Trixie can’t make head nor tail of it. 

"What is it?" Trixie asks.

"It's a clit. That’s what it looks like under the skin," says Katya frankly, “It’s a scandal that women are taught that it’s a tiny nub, instead of this big powerful thing.”

"Big and powerful? It’s hardly pissing Knightrider.”

Katya throws back her head and laughs for the first time that they’ve been talking. It’s a booming laugh that makes people look over from other tables and makes Trixie flush with pleasure. But Katya reels herself in almost immediately. She bites her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. Trixie already wishes she wouldn’t. 

Trixie looks over at Mabli. She’s squinting over at them, one leg crossed over the other and nursing a second glass of wine.

Trixie reaches out and touches the pale skin of Katya’s wrist. Katya flinches and takes a half-step back. Her eyes shutter. With her other hand, she quickly brushes down her sleeve until her thin fingers disappear into the bulk of the leather. 

“Sorry,” Trixie says quickly, “It’s just nice to share a joke with a stranger.”

Katya takes another long chug from her pint and lights up another fag, squashing her last in the crystal ashtray between them. 

"I've been collecting money for the miners at work, I made £95," Trixie blurts, omitting that it took her several weeks.  


"Good on you, sis. The most money I ever made was when I was shaking buckets in the darkrooms." 

"Like a photography studio?" Trixie has seen pictures of photographers in darkrooms, floating their film in trays of chemicals and then hanging them up on washing lines. Trixie is sure that Katya is smart enough to do that. 

Katya splutters with her laughter, swallowing her cigarette smoke. She coughs violently, bent over the bar. Her cough is wet and phlegmy, and she struggles to catch her breath. Katya’s fingers spasm and the cigarette falls from them, bouncing on the bar. 

Trixie darts to rescue it before Hefina sees. She’d go ape shit if Trixie let Katya scorch a mark into the wood.

"No," Katya wheezes, still struggling to control her laughter, "A darkroom. Like, in a gay bar." 

Trixie stares at her blankly. 

"Like, where men go to fuck," Katya explains, her eyes narrow slyly. 

"Where you can see?" Trixie knows that her eyes must be embarrassingly wide. 

"Yes," Katya says slowly. 

"And you saw it? Like, _it_?" Trixie can't help herself from asking. 

"Yeah," Katya shrugs, taking her cigarette back from Trixie and taking another drag.

"How do they manage it?" 

"Lube, a deep breath and a prayer, I assume," Katya answers with a mischievous smile dancing around her mouth. 

"What, and you were just shaking your bucket at them while they were going at it? No wonder you made a packet. They probably wanted you to fuck off so that they could finish up." 

Katya snorts with laughter again. 

“Is it just your dad that’s a miner?” she asks Trixie. 

“My boyfriend too,” Trixie answers, “That’s him, over there.”

Lloyd and his friends are trying to balance Hefina’s new cardboard beermats on their noses. Lloyd’s head is tipped back, mouth wide open, balancing the beermat successfully while Lewis tries to flick it off. He’s weaving and ducking away from Lewis’s fingers, beermat wobbling dangerously. They’ve been friends since they were children, walking together to school until they were old enough to walk together through the gates of the colliery. Lloyd loves _‘The Boys’_ beyond measure, but Trixie can’t quite forget the years of them making fun of her weight until her tits grew past the line of her stomach. 

Katya regards them coolly, “He looks like a catch.”

She wants to tell Katya that every time they visit Trixie’s nan, Lloyd kisses the old lady’s veiny hands and calls her _gorgeous_. She wants to tell Katya about the time Lloyd punched the kitchen cupboards after watching a special appeal about the children dying of famine in Ethiopia. He likes to eat cheese and chocolate in the same mouthful. Trixie pretends it disgusts her, but she doesn’t mind it really. 

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. But Kat -” A man interrupts. He’s tall and thin, wearing a tight pink shirt tucked into acid wash jeans. “Kat, can you take a couple of photos of everyone with Dai? We can put it in the newsletter next week.” 

Kat nods at the man, “I’ll come with you now.”

She turns to Trixie, proffers her half-smoked cigarette, “Good chat. You want this?”

Trixie takes the fag from Katya, and then she turns abruptly and leaves. Trixie watches her head. She’s a foot and a half shorter than the man but she takes quick, long strides so she doesn’t fall behind him. The cigarette filter has been squashed so it’s no longer a cylinder, but some sort of oval shape. Trixie wonders if Katya always holds her cigarettes so tightly between her fingers. 

Trixie smokes Katya’s cigarette at the bar. She doesn’t want to go back to Mabli and her sour face. She doesn’t want to share the contents of her conversation with her sister, doesn’t want to share what she thought of Katya’s raw lips or green eyes. 

The girls she went to school with are dancing in the corner of the Welfare Hall, their handbags in a pile on one of the tables next to them. _Do You Really Want To Hurt Me_ is playing on the speaker, and they’re dancing lazily, shuffling their feet and swaying their shoulders to the reggae-inspired beat. Someone’s turned the main lights off on that corner of the room, and a small disco ball has been strung up from the ceiling to try and convince people that they could be in a nightclub. 

Trixie makes eye contact with Rhiannon Harries and she waves back, beckoning Trixie over to the dancefloor. Boy George’s last, most mournful note fades away and is replaced by a jaunty fiddle. The drums join the fiddle and Trixie groans when she realises what the song is. Dexy’s fucking Midnight Runners. None of the songs they’ve played tonight have been released after 1982, and Trixie feels itchy shame when she thinks what the Londoners might assume about Wales because of their out-dated tunes. 

Rhiannon grabs Trixie’s hand and pulls her into the circle of women. Silver blocks of light travel across their faces in time with the spinning of the disco ball. 

Rhiannon has always been curvy, and has put on weight since she had her baby, but Trixie still feels big and ungainly next to the other women. Their movements speed up with the pace of the music, and Trixie tries to dance alongside them, mirroring the movements of their hips and shoulders, swishing her hands as casually as she can. 

Trixie can’t help looking over to the door that Katya and the rest of LGSM disappeared behind. It stays stubbornly shut. Trixie knows where they are; at the back of the Welfare Hall there’s an office that the most senior members of the community use for meetings. In that room there are number of old artefacts in an old glass cabinet, including Victorian miner’s lamps and a German bullet that was pulled out of someone’s leg in the Second World War. They're probably showing LGSM all that old stuff. 

At home, Trixie has got a picture of her great-grandmother standing with Keir Hardie, founder of the Labour Party and Wales’ first Labour MP. She wonders whether Katya would like it. 

Trixie hopes the Committee remember to let the gays get another drink in from the bar, or that someone takes some drinks in to them. They must be so tired, after being on the road for such a long time. They've almost been further than Trixie has been in her whole entire life. They’re probably far too tired to be forced to feign interest in dusty cloth banners and lumps of coal.

The doors swing open, and Trixie's head whips around immediately. Katya strides in the room and stops. She paces a little, forward and back, craning her neck to look in the corners of the room. 

Trixie holds her finger up at Rhiannon, _'back in a minute'_ she mouths. She wiggles her way out of the circle of girls and approaches Katya again.

"You lost, are you Kat?" Trixie says, trying to exude friendliness. 

"Just looking for the toilet," Katya says. 

"I'll take you!" Trixie says brightly, "It's back the way you came in, it is. And then down a little corridor. It's not easy to find. It's like a rabbit's warren, this place."

Trixie can't quite stop herself from prattling on. Katya must be overwhelmed. It's been a long day, and she almost certainly doesn't want to hear about the time that Tom Jones almost performed at the Welfare Hall. That doesn’t stop Trixie from compulsively telling her about it. 

Finally, they arrive outside the women’s toilet. 

"I'll wait outside, just in case you can't find your way back to the main hall," she offers. 

Katya just nods her head in thanks, disappearing into the bathroom. 

Trixie stands awkwardly outside the door, picking at her itchy lace gloves and playing with the long strand of plastic beads she’s wrapped twice around her neck. 

Katya emerges from the toilet, winding a length of stiff blue tissue paper around her fingers.

Trixie talks fast, "Sorry about that stuff," Trixie starts, "It's so fucking rough. It takes the bloody skin off your fingers if you rub at them too fast! We used to have a drier, but we are trying to cut down on the elect-"

"It's fine," Katya interrupts.

She stops walking and Trixie instantly stops too. They’re stood right in front of a picture of the 1978 colliery football team. 

"It's all fine," Katya repeats gravely, "You don't have to worry. We weren't expecting all this hospitality. We just wanted to give you the money, and let you know that you're not alone in this."

Trixie has been wondering why she's felt so strongly drawn to Katya all evening. She’s been puzzling over why her eyes follow Katya around the room, why she hangs on her every word. She’d initially chalked it up to Katya having access to the music and fashion she’d spent her teen years dreaming of. But suddenly, it clicks. Trixie beams at Katya, buoyed by new understanding.

“What are you smiling about?” Katya asks her quietly. She takes a step closer to Trixie, locking their eyes. Katya doesn’t quite close her mouth.

“It’s just clicked,” Trixie breathes, “I think I finally understand the word _comrade_. Why people say it’s an international brotherhood -. Sisterhood. Whatever. It’s more than friendship, it’s being in the same fight _together_ ,” Trixie feels her eyes prickle with tears. 

They are the same boozed up, sentimental tears that come at the end of Christmas Day. 

Katya’s eyes widen for a second before she screeches with laughter. 

“What?” Trixie demands indignantly. 

“That was just -” Katya pauses in thought, “not what I expected you to say to me then.”

“What did you think I was going to say?” Trixie demands. 

Katya shakes her head, still laughing. 

“Come on,” Katya splays her hand over Trixie’s broad back to lead her down the corridor, “Let’s get you back before you start singing _The Internationale_ , for Christ’s sake.”

They re-enter the main hall to the jagged synth of _Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)_. The thump of the electronic beat uncoils something wretched in the pit of Trixie’s stomach. 

“I love Eurythmics,” Trixie says. She wants to move. She’s spent whole evenings undulating her hips and twining her wrists to this song in the dark of her bedroom. 

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” spits Katya, “I love Annie Lennox. In that video. With the gloves and the cane and the lipstick. Do you know what I mean, Trixie?” 

Katya’s smile is downright feral. Trixie can only stand a second or so of it before she drops her gaze, looks down at the polished wood floor. She wants to tell Katya that she doesn’t like Eurythmics for that reason, but then the song reaches the bit where Annie smacks the cane into her hand in the video. And she doesn’t. 

Trixie’s eyes helplessly dart back up, “Will you dance with us?” 

“Nah, you’re alright bab,” says Katya, “I’m not much of a dancer. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?”

Trixie scoffs, “He’s not much of a dancer either.”

“You dance then. I’ll stand at the bar and watch,” says Katya. She leans against the bar, lights up another fag. This time, she leaves the cigarette in her mouth between drags. 

Trixie wiggles to the music, drawing her fingers slowly through the ruffles on her dress. She peeks over her shoulder between the bars of music and each time she meets Katya’s gleaming green eyes. 

Rhiannon cups Trixie's ear and shouts,"Trix, did you just try and get that lesbian to dance with us?" 

"Yeah!" Trixie enthuses, "She's cool. She’s a Brummie."

Rhiannon wrinkles her nose, "She looks like one of the angry ones, to me.”

“I think it’s just because she’s an artist," Trixie feels a rush of proprietary pride that she can provide individual insight into Katya's character.

The door to the corridor opens again, and the rest of LGSM walk back in to the hall. Some of the gays join Trixie and the girls on the dance floor. The girls squeal, letting them twirl them around to the music. The rest of the group join Katya at the bar. Trixie feels the absence of Katya’s gaze on her shoulders. 

Trixie glances hopefully over her shoulder, but Katya is deep in conversation with Mark Ashton, the leader of LGSM. He's nodding at something she's saying, clapping her on the shoulder. She’s gesticulating insistently, drawing into her palm with her pointer finger as the ash from her cigarette drops onto the toe of her boots. 

Whoever is sorting out music seems to get into their stride, putting on The Jam and Blondie back to back. The dancers kick into the circle like a load of Ska-heads to _Town Called Malice_ , and then Trixie and Rhiannon act along to _Dreaming_ , sticking their little fingers out to sip from an imaginary cup. 

Trixie feels the weight of Katya’s gaze on her. Until she doesn’t. She turns to see Katya’s empty pint glass on the bar next to the crystal ashtray full of fag ends. Trixie tries to swallow her disappointment and dances along to a few more numbers with the rest of the girls before deciding to head home.

***

Lloyd is sinking his seventh or eighth pint. The lads are recounting some story that happened while they were still in school, talking over each other and laughing in the retelling. Trixie has heard every single one of their stories a thousand times. 

Trixie stands next to the table to say good bye and he loops his hand around her waist, before sneaking it down to make a cheeky grab at her bum. She squirms out of his grasp and gives him a quick swat around the head, before leaning down to kiss the top of it. 

“I’m off now, babes,” Trixie says, tucking her bag under her armpit. 

“Where are Mabs and your mam?” he says, craning his neck to look around the dancefloor. 

“Mam went ages ago, I’m not sure when Mabli left. She disappeared when I went to the loo. I’ve been catching up with Elinor Evans and Rhiannon Harries.” 

Lloyd starts struggling to his feet, “I’ll walk you home, cariad. We can get some chips on the way.” He winks clumsily at Trixie, clearly thinking of another detour that they could make on the way home. 

One of the boys catches the gesture and bangs the bottom of his pint glass on the table, starting a chant of, “Lloyd’s getting a shag! Lloyd’s getting a shag!” 

Lloyd, to his credit, puts his hand over the top of the pint glass to stop the banging. His cheeks are red, and he’s sheepish as he meets Trixie’s eyes. 

Trixie’s almost tempted to accept. It would be nice, his warm arm around her shoulders leading her away from the Welfare Hall and to some shadowed corner. Maybe they’d go to the back of the Chapel, where they used to meet before Lloyd had his car. Trixie used to like fucking in the graveyard against the thick wall of the old Chapel, chunks of white paint coming off under her fingernails. Tonight, she’d like it facing the Chapel, moving her hips back against Lloyd just as quickly and firmly as he pumps into her. 

But more than that, she wants a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and fag in bed, and a flick through a new magazine. It’s been months since she had a magazine. Cosmo is only £1.50 and she’s probably got enough change in her purse for that. Her mouth waters at just the thought of the smell of the new pages. 

“Don’t worry about walking me home. You should enjoy having a drink with the boys. You’ve earned it.” 

Lloyd’s dark eyes go soft around the edges, “You’re an absolute angel, Trixie Mattel.” 

Trixie leaves the Welfare Hall and heads out into the dark. She doesn’t need the streetlamps, she’s been walking this route since she was little, when her dad would take her to the Welfare Hall after he finished work. He’d sip a pint slowly and she’d sit on his knee while they did the crossword together. The noise of the music fades into the distance, and soon the only noise around is the clacking of her heels on the pavement. 

The Newsagent is only open for another four minutes. Trixie quickly flicks through Cosmopolitan and The Blitz before she makes her decision. The Blitz is only 75p and has Madness and Kim Wilde in it, but Cosmo has glossier pages and more of the season’s new fashions to dream about. 

The door clatters open, and Katya stumbles through it. As she lands on the doormat she pulls the lapels of her jacket sharply together. She stands with the toes of her boots pointing in different directions, like the hands of a clock. 

“Thank fuck it’s still open. I thought I was out of fags for the night,” Katya declares, “I left the bar half an hour ago, but I’ve been walking up and down the same fucking hill for at least twenty minutes. All the houses around here look the fucking same. And what newsagent shuts at 10pm on a _Saturday_?” Under the harsh yellow light of the newsagent, Trixie sees that her eye-liner has smudged all down her face.

Trixie is glad that Mrs Hughes, the Newsagent, is out of ear-shot for that outburst. She’s always taken a dim view of bad language. 

Trixie arches her eyebrow, “Well, I’m sorry we don’t do things like you do them in London. Down here we don’t keep people away from their families all night for no reason.” 

Katya sways dangerously towards Trixie, “That’s a good point. Eight hours rest, eight hours recreation and eight hours work, isn’t it? One of the cornerstones of Socialism.”

Trixie is fast off the mark, “Another great idea born in Wales.” 

“Robert Owen. Of course,” Katya winks, and plucks a tin of peaches off the shelf behind Trixie. “Midnight snack,” she explains, shaking the tin at Trixie. 

Trixie nods lightly to Katya, “Enjoy. Nos da.” 

Trixie walks to the counter to pay for her magazine, leaving Katya looking at the beers.

Trixie lingers in the small puddle of light under the shop’s awning to rummage in her handbag for a lighter. 

Katya emerges from the shop and manages to smoothly light her cigarette before the door even swings shut behind her. Its orange tip illuminates the hollows under Katya’s cheekbones. 

“Can I borrow you lighter?” 

Katya nods, but doesn’t hand Trixie her lighter. Instead, she moves close enough that she can light Trixie’s cigarette from the end of her own. She has to rock up on her toes a little. It doesn’t catch immediately, and Katya cups her hand around it to protect it from the wind. 

Trixie remembers the time that Seren Joseph went to a camping in France and came back saying that a local boy had done that for her. He had apparently said, “In France, that means we fuck.” She’d attempted a French accent to tell the story and failed miserably. They’d taunted her mercilessly about it until the day they left school. 

Katya interrupts Trixie’s thoughts, “What’s it like?” 

“What?” Trixie startles. 

“Having that great big meatsack thrusting over you,” Katya finishes, grimacing as she speaks.  
“Excuse me?” 

“Your boyfriend. I saw him leering at the waitress with the rest of his brainless chums.” 

“Carly Owens? He would never. She’s got about as much flesh on her as a turkey on the day after Boxing Day.” 

Katya shrugs and then they lapse into silence until Katya jabs her finger through the air in the direction of Trixie’s magazine, “I bet that gives you lots of tips on to how to get rid of your natural body hair, your natural smell, and anything else natural about you.” 

Trixie rolls her eyes, “Actually, I read it for the fashion editorials. I work in fashion, so I need to know what’s going on around the world.” 

Katya snorts, “You work in fashion?” 

“Well, I work in a shoe shop, but you’ve got to think about trends and the whole outfit.” 

Katya gives a wolfish grin, “Sometimes I print bootleg band t-shirts and sell them outside the Electric Ballroom, so I guess we’re in the same industry.” 

Trixie sighs, “That must be immense, I bet you get to see all the latest bands.” 

Katya says casually, “I catch the odd one, yeah.” She flicks her butt into the gutter and stamps it out with her heavy black boots. 

“You never answered, Trixie,” Her voice is low. 

“Answered what?” 

“What it’s like to have –“ 

“Oh, Lloyd,” starts Trixie. She’s still smarting about not knowing what a darkroom is, so she figures that she’ll try and surprise Katya now instead. “Of course, The Meatsack. It’s pretty good, actually. Mabli’s boyfriend, Graham, is an absolute cunt, and Mum says Dad has never lasted more than about six minutes in their entire marriage,” Trixie pauses to take a drag on her cigarette, “So I think I’m doing the best of the three of us.”

Katya’s eyes bug out for a second, and she breaks into a howl of laughter, “Well, I’m glad you’re getting more than six minutes at least!” 

“Who are you staying with?” Trixie asks, “I can walk you to where you’re staying, so you don’t get lost again.” 

Katya rummages in her jacket pockets. Eventually, she produces a small square of paper, “Finally! I thought I’d lost it for a second. I’m staying with, er, Sian and Gary Thomas.” 

Trixie knows the family. They’re good people. She’s glad that Katya is staying with decent people, or she would have had to take Katya home herself. She’s relieved, until she starts to worry whether or not they’ve got a spare room for her. Trixie reasons with herself that even they don’t have a private room, they’ll have a mattress or something to put on the floor. She’s sure that Hefina wouldn’t have let them volunteer if they didn’t have somewhere for the guests to sleep. 

By the time they are halfway up the hill, Katya is starting to wheeze and pant. She doubles over, bracing her hands on her thighs as she tries to catch her breath. 

Katya straightens up and reaches into her leather jacket, pulling out two stubby brown glass bottles of beer.

“Take one of these, while I get my breath back.”

Trixie leans the neck of the bottle at a slight angle against the top of a garden wall. She brings the heel of her hand down firmly on the top of the bottle. It hisses, and the metal bottle top flies off, disappearing somewhere in the grass verge alongside the road. Trixie hands the bottle back to Katya and then does the same to the second one.

“You did that smoothly,” says Katya as she takes her first mouthful of beer.

Trixie shrugs, “My dad showed me.”

“How on Earth do you cope with these hills?” Katya asks, propping her foot up against the wall behind her as she drinks.

“I had to cope with them. They’ve been here longer than I have,” Trixie leans down and slaps the back of her calf, where the muscle bulges out of the skin like a bowling ball. It doesn’t move or jiggle, even with the full impact of her hand. 

“Between the way you slapped open your beer and those muscles, you’d fit right in at a dyke bar,” Katya says slickly as she peels the label off her beer bottle in little strips. 

Trixie feels her face flush immediately. She feels transparent. Like Katya can peer right into her, can watch the thudding of her heart. The thought of Trixie visiting in any sort of dyke bar is as overwhelming as it is ridiculous. She tries desperately to pedal the conversation back to safer ground. 

She can’t believe that the same taciturn Brummie at the bar is running her ragged like this. 

Trixie asks, “What sort of bands have you seen at the Electric Ballroom, then?”

“Er,” Katya looks thrown off by the change of direction, “I saw The Cure a few weeks ago.”

“I love The Cure!” Trixie enthuses. She has so much she wants to say about their music, but what she says is, “Lloyd wants The Lovecats as the first dance at our wedding.”

“That’s a very _cool_ choice. I thought most straight weddings just had some dreary ballad playing out while they shuffle together and try not to cry about their ruined lives.” 

Trixie’s face is still red. She can feel the heat of her cheeks. Surely they must be glowing as much as the streetlights, the moon. She mumbles some vague response. 

“So, when are you getting married then?” Katya forces out. 

“Uh,” Trixie stumbles, “A couple of years.” 

“Why not sooner? If Mr Six-Minutes-Or-More is keen? You’re the same age as me, right? Where I’m from, all the _normal_ girls are shacked up already.” 

“Same here. I’m the last of my friends to get married. But I’ve got things, uh, things I want to do. Before then,” Trixie knows it sounds pathetic. 

“What sort of things?” Katya’s face looks earnest and interested. Trixie wishes it didn’t. 

Trixie is hesitant about reeling off the list of things she’d like to do, as she’s sure Katya has done most of them already. She stares down the hill instead, looking down at the rows and rows of identical terraced houses and the orange lights in the window of the Welfare Hall. 

“I know I shouldn’t even have an opinion,” Katya starts, “Because marriage isn’t open to me. And even if it was, I wouldn’t do it. But it shouldn’t be a dead end, it should be an open door,” Her tone turns teasing, “I’m sure even The Meatsack would appreciate that.” 

Trixie can’t turn her head to look at Katya. Her throat is thick, and she’s not even sure she can manage a nod. 

Katya’s voice gentles, “And if you decide it’s not what you want, you can tell someone.”

Trixie wants to shout at her. She wants to demand that Katya suggest someone she thinks Trixie could tell. Her mother? Mabli? The girls she went to school with? Trixie fixes her eyes on the lights of the Hall. If she concentrates on the orange square of light hard enough, maybe she won't be able to hear Katya anymore. 

Katya’s voice stays soft but gains an urgency, “The world is changing. Like, uh – uh, The Suffragettes. They weren’t that long ago. My Gran remembers the Suffragettes, for Christ’s sake. But look what’s changed since they were kicking around. Fuck, it’s still changing now. We’re changing it. We’re are raising money for the miners. We’re making speeches on the picket-line. We’re standing up to the police. It won’t go back to how it was, not after this.” 

The sincerity in Katya’s voice puts Trixie on dangerous ground. 

She tries to break the tension, “Did I tell you a fucking pig almost hit me across the head with a truncheon just for singing Wham?” 

“I can’t blame him!” laughs Katya, “The only people that like Wham are children and housewives. And they’re wasting their time, everyone knows he’s a bender.”

“George Michael is never a ben - uh. He's not gay,” says Trixie incredulously.

“Well a friend of a friend said that they saw him on Hampstead Heath,” Katya says it like it solves the matter unequivocally. 

Trixie has never heard of Hampstead Heath, but she’s not about to ask Katya for an explanation. 

“Oh!” Katya shouts, “Are you coming to London next month for the big concert?” 

The Lesbian and Gays Support The Miners group have organised a fundraising concert at the Electric Ballroom. They’ve called it ‘Pits and Perverts’ and are offering free tickets and mini-bus travel to the miners and the Welfare Committee. Lloyd had said he couldn’t afford drinks or a hotel room, and Mabli had said she wouldn’t go to something with ‘perverts’ in the name. Trixie’s parents wouldn’t let her go on her own, and so Trixie had nagged them relentlessly until Mabli finally gave in and said she’d go with her sister. 

Despite LGSM being a small group, they’ve managed to persuade Bronski Beat and some other relatively famous bands to perform. Trixie is beyond excited at the thought of seeing actual bands in London. She doesn’t even really like Bronski Beat, but she’s seen them on Top of The Pops and now she’ll see them for real. 

“That’s good. I’m really glad you’re coming, says Katya, “It’s been nice to share a joke with a stranger.” 

She strokes her fingers over Trixie’s wrist. Trixie watches her finger move over the blue veins. The skin around Katya’s nails is cracked and bleeding and against Trixie’s white lace gloves, they look yellow with nicotine.

Trixie doesn’t pull away. She turns to Katya, intending to ask her opinion on what she should wear to the concert. But as she does, Katya feathers her thumb up the inside of Trixie’s forearm. Trixie is incredibly sensitive there and can’t quite supress a shiver. Katya seems emboldened and drags her thumb back down Trixie’s forearm slower and more firmly than the first time. 

Katya holds Trixie’s eyes. It must be creeping closer to midnight and Katya’s eyes are dark and mercurial. Ringed with black in her white face, they look unreal. This whole evening feels unreal. 

Trixie takes Katya’s leather sleeve loosely between her fingers and tries to tug Katya lightly to her. Katya’s feet are firmly planted on the ground, knees locked. Although she sways slightly towards Trixie, her feet don’t move, and she soon sways back on her heels. Trixie frowns a little, cocks her head at Katya. Katya smiles faintly in response.  


That does it. Trixie brings both of her hands to Katya’s shoulders. Her hands sink into the leather and she can feel how dainty Katya’s shoulders are underneath her jacket. Trixie brings her hands together, smoothing them along the line of Katya’s shoulders and towards her neck. 

There’s a flicker of apprehension in Katya’s eyes, like she thinks Trixie might actually bring her fingers around Katya’s slim neck. She realises with a hot curl of shame that Katya might be used to violent rejection. 

Trixie doesn’t want to hurt Katya, but she can’t be gentle either. She seizes Katya’s lapels and yanks her against Trixie’s solid body. She pulls so hard that she thinks Katya’s feet may have actually left the ground. 

If Trixie had been asked what kissing a woman might be like, she might have said that she would expect it to be soft or delicate. It’s not. Katya’s canine teeth are catching on her lip and her own teeth are gnashing back at Katya’s mouth. 

Katya’s fingers yank their way through her hair and her own fingers are scrabble dumbly at the zip of Katya’s jacket. Katya is shorter than she is, and it feels strange to bend her neck downwards rather than craning it up.  


Trixie reaches down to drag Katya up further, so she can kiss her even more deeply, and then startles with the realisation of what she’s doing. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Trixie lurches back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “I don’t know what I was doing.” 

Katya squares her shoulders immediately. She holds her hands like spades at her thighs. Her chin is low, her eyes wary. 

“I might have known,” Katya snarls, “That my role in this was helping a breeder sort out her shit.” 

Trixie hasn’t heard that word before, but she catches the meaning. 

Katya coughs deeply and leans past Trixie to spit phlegm into the gutter. 

When she stands up Trixie sees that her mouth is stained with Trixie’s pink lipstick and there’s a dribble of spit running down her chin. 

Trixie tries to sound aloof, “You need to carry on up this hill and then turn a right. It’s the house with the blue door, on the left side of the street. Next door has a baby so don’t knock on the door too loud.” 

Katya stalks off up the hill. She’s got a long stride for a short woman, Trixie thinks uselessly. 

Trixie watches her leave, her legs and arms feeling weightless.

As she disappears into the distance, Katya starts singing the riff from The Lovecats, _”We're so wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully pretty!”_

Trixie is pretty sure she’s being made fun of again. She’s tempted to run after Katya, grab her by the shoulders and shake her. But she can’t be sure she won’t make the same mistake twice and do something else instead. Instead, she gathers the beer bottles and the shreds of Katya’s label from where they’ve fallen to the floor, and heads back home.

***

Trixie lies back on Lloyd’s single bed, staring up at his poster of the Welsh national rugby team. She can barely tell the players apart. Her boyfriend is sat at the end of the bed, picking over the chords of an old Fleetwood Mac song on the guitar she bought him for Christmas.

She can feel contented for a few moments at a time, until she remembers what happened last night. Every time she remembers her stomach lurches. She gets vivid flashes of her own hands desperately trying to find Katya’s skin. Katya trying to reassure Trixie that she’s not in a dead end. Katya’s searing eyes as she leant down to spit in the gutter.

Every time she remembers she desperately pushes the thought away. She repeats that she only did it because Mabli was winding her up. It’s so typical of her, typical Trixie Mattel, to get carried away with showing off. So eager to be friendly with the gays that she had to go and kiss one! It’s the sort of thing she’ll let herself be teased about one day. 

Lloyd barely looks up from his guitar as he says, “It was good last night, wasn’t it Trix?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees vaguely. 

“They were alright, the LGSM. Weren’t they? You wouldn’t even know they were – you know, some of them. And they were a right laugh; the lads as well as the lasses. It’s nice to know they care, even though they are all the way up in London.” 

Lloyd pulls up his t-shirt to scratch at his dark chest hair.

“They were pretty cool, yeah,” Trixie sounds flat and she hopes that Lloyd doesn’t notice too much. 

“ _Lloyd_ ,” his mam screeches from downstairs, “Come and help me set up the table for Trixie, we’re not eating on our laps tonight, boyo!” 

He huffs, “It’s ridiculous. You know we eat on our laps in front of the telly every other night! You probably do it in your house!” 

Trixie smirks, “We do. But it’s nice to feel like a treasured guest." 

She grins obnoxiously and presses herself down into the pillows, "Go and help your mother, Lloyd. Go on!” 

He rolls his eyes and stomps out of his room, slamming the door behind him. 

She listens to Lloyd clanging about in the living room. Trixie shuffles further down the bed. She remembers the sharp pain of Katya’s teeth biting into her lip, then firmly shuts the door on that memory. 

Trixie wonders if Katya ever ate those tinned peaches. She imagines Katya sitting up in bed with the tin opened jaggedly between her knees. She scoops out the soft peaches with her hands, licks the juice as it dribbles all the way down her forearms.

Trixie needs something to take her mind off Katya, and she roots around underneath Lloyd’s bed for some entertainment. She pulls out a thin porno magazine with its pages stiff and crinkled from overuse. Usually she’d either shove it back or keep it to tease Lloyd with until his big jug ears went pink. But today it feels like a challenge. She wants to prove to herself that what happened last night was a moment of madness brought on by a couple of pints and a desire to show off. 

She opens it to a random page and finds two girls together. They’re under a waterfall, puffy nipples brushing together under the spray. Their breasts are much smaller than anyone in Trixie’s family. 

The models are both grinning their heads off. Their thick mascara is perfect despite the water. One of them has a flicky fringe like Trixie is thinking of getting. Neither of them is reaching for the other, despite the fact their nipples are touching. Both of them have their arms passively by their sides, palms facing their thighs. Trixie doesn’t feel so much as a twinge of arousal when she looks it, and she sends a quick thank you to her body for not betraying her.

She flicks to the next page. It’s a woman lying on a bed with her full bush out, legs open carelessly to the sides. She’s wearing a white negligee, with her tits pulled out roughly over the neckline. Her long labia are a bright, Barbie pink. It's a bit much, and Trixie turns to the next page.

Her heart speeds up, her mouth dries out. 

The girl is casual. She leans against a motorcycle with a lake in the background. She’s somewhere like America, somewhere with red rocks and dusty soil. Her hair is golden and she’s catching it in her hand as the wind plays with it. She’s wearing light blue jeans, with the buttons undone. Trixie can’t see if she’s wearing any pants. 

The model’s tanned hand rests on her toned stomach and the golden sun casts pretty shadows across her bare breasts. They’re flatter than those of the other girls, with tight brown nipples. The model is looking into the middle distance, and Trixie wonders what she’s looking at, what she’s dreaming of. 

Sometimes with Lloyd she unbuttons the fly of his jeans and nuzzles the soft flesh of his furred stomach. She waits there until he’s whining, and then takes pity by drawing the zip down with her teeth. For a moment, she lets herself wonder if this model would like the same treatment; whether she’d arch up under Trixie. 

She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t hear Lloyd coming up the stairs.

“Mam says tea will be ready in an hour! Fuck - Trix, what are you looking at?” 

She startles but recovers quickly. She grimaces, letting her nose wrinkle and her tongue loll out of her mouth. She makes a wanking motion in front of her crotch and an ugly grunting noise. 

“I’m Lloyd,” she says, “I like to wank off looking at pictures of women that would never want to shag me.”

“Trix, don’t be cruel,” He says, “You don’t know that, she might want to shag me!”

“I don’t know if you could handle this one,” Trixie says. She holds up the page to show Lloyd the picture she’s paused on.

“I think I could,” He says obstinately.

“Go on then, loverboy. You tell me what you’d do to rock her world,” Trixie looks at Lloyd with a challenge in her eyes.

Lloyd gets on the bed and walks across it on his knees so that he’s straddling Trixie.

“Well, first I’d walk up to her,” He starts, sweetly.

Lloyd scrunches up his face like he’s trying to look stern, dropping his voice an octave, “And then I’d tell her, ‘Turn around, bend over the bike.’”

“And would she?” Trixie asks.

“Yeah, she’d put her hands on the leather seat and bend over for me. I’d come up behind her.”

Trixie shuffles on the bed. She lets her eyes flutter closed, allowing the arousal to grow in the pit of her stomach.

Lloyd lies down over her, taking her breasts into his hands. She's only wearing a soft cup bra, and he's able to find her nipples easily, rolling them gently between his fingers.

"I'd come up behind her, and I'd grab her breasts from behind. And I'd pinch her nipples, just like this."

In her mind's eye Trixie can see the girl bent over at the waist, her small breasts hanging down, just waiting to be cupped. Lloyd pinches her nipples a bit harder and the sharpness throbs through her body, bringing her back to herself. 

Lloyd reaches over them to set a record on his player, turns it up loud enough that his mum won’t hear.

"And then I'd rub myself against her, through her jeans. She'd be able to feel me getting hard against her," Lloyd whispers in her ear.

Trixie whines encouragingly, and Lloyd continues. 

"I'd drag my hand down her stomach and I'd put my fingers straight down into the front of her jeans."

Trixie tries to imagine herself as the girl. She imagines the feel of the leather seat under her fingers, and how she could stare out at the lake with the hot sun on her back. But the vision keeps warping so she's standing in Lloyd's place, wrapping her hand around the girl's waist and grinding herself against her arse. Trixie tells herself to get a grip, she hasn’t even got a cock.

Lloyd's talking about reaching down into the girl's jeans now, finding her wetness drenching the denim. He tells Trixie that he wants to take his hand out of the model's jeans to hear her whimper, and then rub the seam of the jeans up against her clit instead. 

Sweat is pouring down Trixie’s back and between her breasts. She’s panting, can’t help herself squirming on the bed. She pulls Lloyd more firmly against her and can’t help thinking of yanking Katya’s lapels to pull Katya to her. Her nipples are painfully swollen where they press against her bra.

When Lloyd tries to kiss her she grabs his jaw, forces his mouth away from hers.

“Keep talking,” she hisses through her teeth. 

Lloyd grins and obliges her. He tells her that he wants to kick the girl’s legs apart, her jeans stretching between her ankles while he fucks her from behind. 

He tells Trixie that he wants the model’s head hanging over the other side of the bike, screaming his name across the deserted lake.

Trixie's knickers get wetter and wetter, her hips rutting against him to try and relieve the pressure. 

He tells her that he’s thinking about his big hands, his dirty miner’s hands, spanning the model’s waist. It’s hot, but when Trixie thinks about how her own hands are bigger than most girls', how they’d probably span her waist too, she finds herself pressing her lips together to stifle the moans that want to escape. Her skin prickles with arousal. She’s so worked up, doesn’t know if she’s felt this turned on before. She reaches up to pull her own hair, arching and twisting on the bed with great lumps of it in her fists. 

Somehow, in the middle of this mutual fantasy, Lloyd has managed to push both his own jeans and Trixie's down to mid-thigh. He's pulled her white cotton knickers to one side and is pumping into her. 

They’re both sweating, it has a sour, beery tang to it, but even that is making her pulse. She pulls both their t-shirts up and their bellies slide together in the slick they’re making.

It’s messy and uncomfortable, but Trixie doesn’t know if she’s ever felt hotter. Her hair is matted to her forehead and she’s biting at her lips to stop her moans from escaping. Her eyes are scrunched tightly shut to keep the fantasy vivid. She can see the model's golden hair, feel how soft her skin is. 

Her cunt throbs. She doesn’t need to imagine colours and shapes to push her over the edge this time. She reaches down to rub her clit as Lloyd fucks her. She's lost in her head, and before she even realises it, she’s coming. Her body goes rigid as she shivers and shakes, toes clenching tightly inside her socks. It doesn’t take much longer for Lloyd to come. He stops thrusting and clambers off Trixie, finishing himself off onto his blue cotton bedsheets.

He collapses down the other side of Trixie, and lays wet kisses up and down her neck. 

“Fuck, Trixie. I love you so much,” He rambles, chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

She doesn't even really hear him. She’s still fixated on kissing Katya's dry lips, and stripping her body out of that heavy jacket. 

Her head rings with Katya’s words, “What’s it like having that great big meatsack thrusting over you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note on sources! Fans of the film Pride will notice that I've described this night a bit differently to the film. I absolutely adore that scene and think it's genius, and for that reason I knew I couldn't replicate it. I've looked at sources like [the Dancing in Dulais film made by LGSM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHJhbwEcgrA) and [this interview](https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/aug/31/pride-film-gay-activists-miners-strike-interview), plus other similar interviews and I've tried to produce a composite scene which also serves my narrative purpose! 
> 
> Thank you to all of those that have really helped me with this chapter, especially those that have spoken to me about your personal experiences. I'm learning with every new thing that I write, and your assistance is invaluable.
> 
> The next one will take me a bit longer but will also be pretty chunky.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, there's a fair bit of smoking & drinking in this chapter! British drinking culture is awful.

**5th December - 10th December 1984: Now in its seventh month, the strike is more bitter and violent than ever. Negotiations collapse. Miners in England consider returning to work, but the strike remains unbroken in Wales.**

Trixie sits in the park with Rhiannon Harries, using her foot to push and pull the baby’s pram back and forth across the pathway.

The park is deserted, and both girls are wearing their thickest coats to keep the frosty air out. The baby is swaddled up in his pram, layered in so many blankets that Trixie can barely see his chubby cheeks. Only his nose sticks out, a tiny blob reddened by the chill. Every so often a pensioner shuffles past, and stops to ask Trixie or Rhiannon about their parents. A batty old woman interrogates Trixie about her grandfather, apparently forgetting that he’s been dead for at least ten years. The sky is grey, and the mist still hasn’t cleared from the top of the mountains. Even the birds sit mutely on the empty branches. None are flying, none are singing. 

After the night LGSM came to visit, Rhiannon and Trixie have met up regularly for walks with the baby. Rhiannon isn’t as bright as Mabli. She doesn’t have the sharp tongue that makes her sister exciting company, when she’s at her best. She doesn’t smoke or drink as much as any of the Mattels, or know who New Order are. But Trixie has the distinct feeling that without some adult company Rhiannon would be half-mad by now, and so she commits herself to these half-hearted trundles around the park. 

“Duw duw,” says Rhiannon, “Did you hear about the taxi driver last week, Trix? Apparently that concrete block weighed about three stones. They can’t have meant to have hit the car, no one could have survived that.”

Two striking miners, young lads, had been throwing bricks and lumps of concrete on the road to stop scabs going to work, and coal being taken to factories. They’d hit a taxi with a concrete block from almost 30 feet in the air. The car had lost control, hit an embankment, and the driver had been dead before the ambulance arrived. The taxi driver was from Cardiff, had been employed by his agency to drive a scab to work.

It has been the first feature on the news every night that week. Not just the Welsh news, but the national news too. Trixie heard a phrase in the reportage, _grey matter_ , that has been repeating in her head ever since. Grey matter spattered on the head rest, grey matter spattered on the windshield. She isn’t wholly sure what _grey matter_ is, but the phrase viscerally terrifies her.

There have been pictures of the victim in the paper. He had a shy smile and a thick moustache and in the grainy black and white newsprint, he could look like Lloyd, or Trixie’s dad. 

Trixie isn’t religious. But every night since she’s whispered a prayer for the taxi driver and made a plea to God to keep all the people in this bitter dispute safe, apart from Margaret Thatcher. She prays especially hard for Lloyd, squeezes her hands tightly together and thinks about his kind eyes. 

She knows that she did wrong by kissing someone else, even if it was only to show off. Even if there was no real feeling behind it, just an impulse. She worries about God, or whoever, taking Lloyd away just to punish her. 

She thinks of the picture taken on their first day of secondary school set on the mantelpiece at home. It was the first day they met, having attended different primary schools. At the time, before the rest of the boys had their growth spurts, they had been the tallest children in their class. 

They haven’t made love in three weeks. Every time they try Trixie’s mind goes to the model in the desert, and she can smell the phantom of Katya’s leather jacket, taste the beer in her mouth. This week, when Lloyd had kissed her hopefully, the smell of Katya had been replaced by the vision of the gaping black hole where the taxi’s windscreen had been, and the driver’s blood soaking into the seat. 

“I suppose he knew what he was getting into though, taking scab money,” Rhiannon says blandly. 

“You say that, but does anyone say goodbye to their children in the morning, and not expect to come home?” Trixie asks.

Rhiannon changes the subject, “Did your family have a Christmas card from your gay yet? We did.”

Trixie’s stomach flips, she wonders if Katya has sent Sian and Gary Thomas a card. Trixie doesn’t even know what her handwriting looks like.

She tries to keep her voice steady as she answers, “Nah, we didn’t have one to stay with us. Hefina arranged it all before Mabli moved out, and mam hates people sleeping on the sofa. Are you going to that big concert they’ve organised?”

“No,” says Rhiannon, reaching to softly press the chubby cheek of her baby, “He’s too little, still feeding.”

“But can’t you just leave him with your mum? You deserve a break!” Trixie protests, “It’s going to be amazing!”

Rhiannon chuckles, “You’re talking about him like he was just a little package to be dropped off, it’s not like that when they’re your own. Who are you going with? Lloyd?”

Trixie rolls her eyes, “He told me he feels too sick on coaches. Mabli’s coming, but only after Graham agreed to cough up and buy us a room in a B&B. She didn’t want to stay with any gays or lesbians.”

Rhiannon lifts her eyebrows, “What does she think they’re going to do to her? Strap her down and make her listen to disco? What are you going to wear?”

Trixie has done a lot of thinking, and sketching, about this. She’s decided to go a little bit bolder with her eye make up, less Madonna and more Souxie Soux. She’s going to back-comb her hair until it’s wild enough to match her eyes. She wants to hint at a bit of new wave cool by doing something sharp and graphic across her cheek. They’ve all been given _Pits and Perverts_ t-shirts, and she’s going to slash a deep cleavage in hers, squeeze into a tight black skirt and brave her highest heels. 

She describes her outfit to Rhiannon, and Rhiannon’s mouth twitches with amusement as Trixie becomes more and more animated. 

“There’s no one else like you, Trixie. You’re on your own, you are,” says Rhiannon after Trixie’s finished, “Just watch out for Aled farting on the bus. Honestly, Mark says that boy could clear the whole mine.”  


***

On the coach to London Trixie and Mabli inevitably break into their Mam’s packed lunch by the time they reach the motorway. Someone tries to get a rousing chorus of _The Red Flag_ going but they soon realise that no-one knows the verses after the first one, and then Mabli falls asleep and leaves Trixie to her thoughts.

It seems to take forever to reach the city, and when they do it seems to take even longer to crawl through the streets of tall, terraced houses with steps leading down to the pavement. 

Eventually they reach Camden. Some people on the bus had never heard of Camden before, but Trixie has read about it in her music magazines. The Clash shot their first album cover on some side-street next to the canal. Madonna played at the Camden Palace last year and Boy George is continually photographed in various Camden nightclubs wearing outrageous make-up. They pass shabbier, flat fronted buildings with shops at the bottom, and market stalls covered with saggy tarpaulin. There’s a pub on every street corner. 

They coach drives under a railway bridge, and then the road goes up over the canal. Two men are trying to get a large barge through the lock, and Trixie is fascinated by watching the way the water rises as they wind the paddle and push open the gates. 

While Trixie is watching them, the boys on the bus start cheering and slapping the seats. Trixie whips her head around to look out the windows on the other side. Someone has painted “VICTORY TO THE MINERS” in large white letters on the red brick of the bridge. They don’t stop cheering themselves until they eventually pull up outside the Electric Ballroom. It looks plain from the outside, a blue sign mounted on a grey building. The words are wired up with neon lights, but at the moment they are dark and dull, and the door is shuttered up. Trixie can’t wait to see how it comes alive at night.

Some of LGSM have arrived to meet their adopted miner directly off the bus, but others scatter in different directions with their maps in hand. The people on the street are a lot more interesting than in Onllwyn. Trixie spots a black couple with orange tinted sunglasses and perfectly round afros, and another couple with tall, spiked mohawks and safety pins through their ears. 

Graham picked the B&B for them, and Mabli has studiously written out directions to it at the back of her notebook. It’s called The Albion and it breathes Englishness, from the heavy velvet curtains to the pleated floral valance around the two single beds. The proprietor shows them to their room, asks them to shower only between 8pm and 9pm, or between 7am and 8am. Breakfast is home cooked, but served only between 6am and 7.30am. They wait until she’s handed over the keys and padded down the corridor before they burst into laughter. 

The sisters get ready in their room. Mabli has smuggled a bottle of cheap wine in the bottom of her rucksack and they pass it back and forth across the gap between their beds, swigging from the neck of the bottle. 

Trixie loses herself in sculpting a new eye shape in black kohl, and artfully teasing her hair so it stands up straight from her scalp.

She uses a small pair of nail scissors to snip down the middle of her t-shirt. It’s got a printed image of a miner and a triangle against a distressed Union Jack, “Pits and Perverts” in big letters and the details of the concert underneath. 

Mabli’s make up is simpler, powder blue eyelids and a rosy lip. She lets her permed, blonde curls out of their bun and shakes them until they fall around her face, and then lies back on the bed to read until Trixie is finally finished.

Mabli looks over the top of her book and studies Trixie carefully, “You look like you’ve _gone native_ , if you know what I mean.”

Trixie shrugs, “It’s fun. Thinking like, is this who I’d be if I’d lived in London all my life?”

Mabli laughs, “You’d be the same, Trix. Tall and fat and obsessed with Madonna.”  


***

By the time they’ve finished the wine, Trixie and Mabli are both feeling giggly as they leave their B&B in a cloud of hairspray.

The sign on the outside of the Electric Ballroom is illuminated by the time they get there, and Trixie fizzes with excitement. It’s busy. Members of LGSM hurry in and out the doors. They push speakers on wheels and carry big boxes of t-shirts. It's the biggest venue Trixie has ever been in, with a proper stage, spotlights, and a balcony all around the upper floor. 

“Do we need to do anything?” She asks a slender boy she recognises as one of the LGSM members who came down to Wales.

“Just enjoy yourselves, girls! I think I saw the other Welsh lot at the bar. They’ve already sunk a couple of pints.”

Trixie doesn’t doubt it. She knows what they’re like, they can never resist drinking as much as they can when they’re all together. They deserve a few drinks, after months of being called lazy, selfish and dangerous in the national newspapers. They’re the men of the hour tonight, and they’re walking like they believe it. 

The gig starts with Dai Donovan, the somewhat reluctant representative of the miners, addressing the crowd. He sounds warm over the microphone, speaking with slow musicality and a quiet dignity. Trixie looks around at the faces of the crowd as he talks about the common links between their communities, about the importance of solidarity. He weaves a story, only half-bollocks, about the apparently historic banner stuffed in a cupboard back at the Welfare Hall.

Trixie looks around the crowd, who are largely listening with rapt attention. She sees a couple seemingly spellbound by Dai’s speech. One is frozen with his pint in hand and mouth slightly open, while the other rubs his hand up and down his boyfriend’s back in time with Dai’s words.

He finishes the story by saying that when the time comes, the mining community of south Wales will support the gay community. Trixie knows he means it and when he finally steps back from the microphone the crowd holler and stamp their approval, and something in Trixie’s chest opens.

With the formalities over, Trixie locks her eyes on the stage. Some people drift off back to the bar or the toilets, but she doesn’t want to miss any of the live band. She’s watching the lights steak across the black curtain, lighting the dust and cigarette smoke in thick blue curls. The guitarist emerges from behind the curtain. He’s so high up on the stage, popping his hip in his skin tight trousers. Trixie starts screaming instinctively. She can’t even hear herself, just feel the reverberations in her throat. Mabli is grinning too, wiggling her hips in anticipation of the start of the long awaited gig.

The singer struts on, holding the microphone loosely in his hand. He winds up the crowd, holding his mic in front of his crotch and drawing his fingers up and down it quickly. 

The band do four or five numbers, and Trixie dances as hard as she can. She lets her hips sway and her head roll back on her neck until her hair tickles her back. She wipes the sweat off her top lip.  
Mabli reaches into her handbag and pulls out two pre-rolled joints, she tips one towards Trixie.

“Mabs, where the fuck did you manage to get weed in Onllwyn?” Trixie shouts above the music.

“They come as a peace offering from Graham. What’s the point of bringing in anyone on a drugs charge if you’re not going to play a bit of ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’?”

Trixie shakes her head, “I can’t believe you, Mabs. That’s disgusting. I’m going to get a glass of water from the bar.”

Her sister bristles, “Whatever Trix, I’ll dance with the lads. No one gives a shit except for you, babes. Jog on, if you’re going to be a knob.”

Trixie flicks her fingers up at her sister, and picks her way through the crowd. She can’t see anyone she knows, despite the fact that there’s a busload of pissed-up miners and miner’s wives here somewhere.  
She stops to watch a gay couple kiss tenderly. It’s something she’s never seen before. Each man cradles the back of the other’s skull. Their mouths are moving slowly. They stop for breath, a line of spit glimmering between them. One whispers something in the other man’s ear, they laugh together. It’s hard to imagine anyone feeling disgusted by those boys.

Trixie turns back to the bar, and spots Katya. She’s in profile, and Trixie recognises her proud forehead and sharp nose immediately. Katya turns her head into a beam of harsh white light. Their eyes meet, and the spotlight-illuminated green of her eyes makes Trixie gasp. All the air is sucked from the room. 

A proprietary feeling creeps over her. She may not have had Katya to stay, but she spent a whole evening with her. She replays the scant facts that she knows in her head: Birmingham, mining background, artist, anti-apartheid. But as quickly as she congratulates herself on what she dragged out of Katya, she vividly remembers the sight of Katya’s back, hunched and tight under her leather jacket as she stomped away from Trixie.

Katya probably hasn’t come alone. She’s almost certainly come with someone with greater claim to knowing Katya than Trixie could hope to have. Maybe they’ve laughed at Trixie together, at her provincial stupidity and clumsy, stumbling kiss. 

She’s mortified when she thinks about the kiss. Katya must kiss women all the time, so she probably hasn’t given it the same level of thought as Trixie. She hasn’t thought about the way Trixie’s hands scratched against Katya’s leather jacket, or the way that they both tasted of beer, or the way their teeth bumped together when Trixie tried to lean her face up instead of down.

Katya pushes through the crowd separating them until she’s in front of Trixie. Trixie feels rooted to the spot. Her heart hammers in her chest. What if Katya’s still angry with her, only coming over to tell Trixie to fuck off?

Then Katya is standing in front of her, toe to toe. Same leather jacket. A _Pits and Perverts_ t-shirt, hair freshly buzzed so the line of her flat top cut is absolutely perfect. Her face looks bare and young, her lips are still dry. 

She pulls Trixie down so she can yell in her ear, “How’s everyone in Onllwyn?”

Katya mangles the _ll_ sound, but Trixie appreciates her trying even though her ear ends up drenched in spit. 

“Poor, and fucking miserable," Trixie says.

Katya inclines her shoulder towards Trixie in the best attempt at a consoling gesture she can manage with a full pint in her hand, “Thatcher and the rest of those fuckers will get their reckoning one day.”

Trixie nods grimly. 

“You’ve done an amazing job of putting all this together!” Trixie yells back at her, trying to lighten the tone, “It looks so professional! The best concert I’ve ever been to!”

Katya grins at her, “Thanks, I’m glad to see you’re wearing your t-shirt!”

Trixie curses herself. She forgot that Katya was a print-maker. She looks down at her own t-shirt and feels guilty for cutting into it, severing right through the miner’s helmet.

“Did you make them?” She asks, “They’re lush. The font you chose is ace.”

Katya laughs at her, “My mate Kev drew the design out, then we asked a proper place to print them. I only do small runs. If I’d done this many in my bedroom, most of the miners would have had four heads.”

“Yours looks good on you,” Trixie says.

Katya’s t-shirt clings tightly to her petite body, and has been firmly tucked in to the belt of her ripped black jeans. Katya doesn't respond, just pulls at the sleeves of her jacket.

Trixie doesn’t really consider what she says before she says it, “I’m sorry that I kissed you. You were away from home it and it wasn’t fair to ambush you like that.”

Katya smiles more warmly, “Come dance with me. They’re the last one before Bronski Beat come on. ”

Trixie and Katya bounce along next to each other until the frontman’s voice skids from an airy falsetto to a more sultry tone, murmuring breathily into the mic. A sulky looking synth player presses a button to release a metallic pew-pew-pew noise every now and again.

Trixie wiggles up her skirt and bends her knees to dance with Katya’s knees slotted in between hers, and together they sway their hips from side to side. Trixie lets her eyes flutter closed. The denim of Katya’s jeans is rough on the inside of Trixie’s thighs and she can smell Katya in the heat; smoke and something similar to the scent of tomatoes fresh from the vine.

Trixie’s eye level runs across the top of Katya’s flat, cropped hair. The hair at Katya’s temple is wet with sweat, but the top looks so level that Trixie wants to run her hand along the top of it.

”Can I touch your hair?” Trixie shouts.

Katya nods, looking bemused.

Trixie brings her hand down on Katya’s hair. It’s springy and bristly, and she laughs delightedly at the feel of it. She bounces her hand off the flat top, then brushes her hair against the grain to feel the strands push back against her hand, before letting it fall back naturally. 

“Do you want me to buzz your hair for you? I’ve got my clippers at home,” Katya teases, looking up at Trixie challengingly. 

“Cut my hair?” Trixie exclaims, pretending to stumble backwards with her hand over her heart.

Katya rolls her eyes at her. She takes a length of Trixie’s long hair in her hand, and inspects it like a tanner looks at a hide.

“You’re not a natural blonde,” Katya states the obvious, Trixie’s roots are about four inches long. 

Katya runs her hand along it, “You’d look so striking with short dark hair and those eyes. Like Sally Bowles.”

Trixie leans down and cups her hand around Katya’s ear, “My dad said all the most ancient people in Wales were dark like us. But I just wanted to look like Madonna.”

“You’re prettier than Madonna,” Katya smirks up at her.

Trixie bats her eyelashes, “I don’t believe you.”

“I won’t tell you again,” Katya takes a long pull of her pint.

Trixie giggles and pulls Katya deeper in the throng of people dancing. She feels so free. More so than when her, Lloyd and Mabli used to get the minibus to Swansea with the rest of the young people from the village to dance on a Saturday night.

She feels like she could be anywhere. She could be anyone, a film starlet or a singer or just someone cool. She could be in the world’s most glittering nightclub, with the world’s most glamorous people. She reminds herself of all the legends that have played here: Bowie, Blondie, The Sex Pistols. 

She turns so her back is to Katya, and then shimmies back so she’s pressed tight to Katya’s chest.

Katya’s probably got a mouthful of Trixie’s hair, and she’s too short for Trixie to be able to throw her head back and rest it on Katya’s shoulder. Trixie takes Katya’s narrow hands and draws them up the front of her own thighs.

Trixie’s skirt is skin tight and she knows Katya will be able to feel the bump of the clip of her suspender belt, where it is holding up her stockings.

Trixie pushes Katya’s hand down into the place where her stockings meet her suspender belt, lets her run her hand side to side to feel the difference between her silk stockings and her skin.

Katya speaks into Trixie’s ear, “One minute you’re sorry you kissed me. The next you’re making me feel your suspender belt. What’s going on, hmm?”

Trixie turns to answer her but Katya’s eyes are so knowing that she gives up, turns back around. 

There’s a flush creeping up Trixie’s chest and her spine feels loose and fluid. She wants to spread her legs further, lean more of her weight against Katya. She wants to draw Katya’s fingers up between her legs where she’s already slick, hot and twitching. She feels so far from her everyday life that it’s easy to forget about Lloyd, about Mabli, about the strike and Margaret Thatcher and anything associated with any of it. 

Trixie pretends there’s nothing beyond this room. She’s not Trixie from Onllwyn. All that was erased when she put that eyeliner on, made herself look like a London punk.

She stares out at the dancers. The whole nightclub looks ethereal with pink and purple lights flashing across their faces. They have been transported by the music and the close proximity to each other. Trixie watches a woman dancing alone, her eyes and fists clenched tight. Next to her, there’s a man with sweat running down the muscles of his shoulders and back, leather straps criss-crossing the hairy expanse of it. Pressed against him, two short men kiss passionately, tugging at each others ears.

Trixie can feel all the blood in her body throbbing in time with the beat of the music.

Katya’s hands slip out from under her own, start exploring Trixie’s thighs of their own accord. They’re tentative at first but soon Katya’s hands slip around to the firm muscle at the back of her thighs, toned from a lifetime of steep hills.

Trixie’s whole focus shifts to Katya’s hands. She can feel every whorl on her fingertips. She tries desperately to pull them up to her pulsing core with her mind.

The leather of Katya’s jacket creaks as she pushes herself up on her toes behind Trixie. Katya’s teeth graze her neck.

“Have you ever been had by a woman?” Katya hisses in Trixie’s ear.

“No,” Trixie says. She tries to keep her voice as steady as she can, and to stop it from turning into a keen or a whine. She’s losing that battle, slowly but surely.

“I think every woman should have a bit of lesbian inside her, “ Katya says damply into her ear. 

Katya’s kneecap rubs against the back of Trixie’s knee. Her knee could buckle at any minute.

“Do you?” breathes Trixie.

”Yeah, would you like some?” Says Katya, mouth curling into a sharp grin.

Trixie catches up with her little joke and screeches, straightening her legs and turning to clip Katya lightly on the side of her head, ”That’s such a rotten old chat up line”

Katya just laughs with Trixie.

Katya bends and puts her hands under Trixie’s thighs, but she hasn’t got a hope of lifting her up.

Trixie looks over her shoulder and spots a row of bar stools. She tugs Katya over to them.

“I’ll sit on one of these and you can pretend you’re lifting me!”

Trixie hoists herself up onto the little leather seat and circles Katya’s legs with her own legs, lets her heels brush against the back of Katya’s calves. She wants to scram her with the points of them, leave a mark for the next woman to see. 

She shuffles on the narrow stool, balancing her big arse on it, then arranges her curls to lie temptingly either side of the self-made tear in her t-shirt.

“Have you ever had a woman like me?” Trixie asks, letting her lower lip pooch out a little.

“And what sort of a woman is that?”

Trixie twists on her hip so that she can cross one leg over the other.

“Like, you know, a real girly girl type.”

Katya huffs, “I have a seen a feminine woman before, believe it or not. We have our own. We’re not forever sat waiting for straight girls to deign to acknowledge us.”

Trixie brow furrows. There must be something that she has misunderstood.

She wraps her hands around Katya’s waist and starts to play with the thick leather of Katya’s wide belt. She pulls it rhythmically and Katya lets her, bumping her body into Trixie with every pull.

“But what about a girl like _me_ ” Trixie doesn’t know quite what she means by that, but she hopes that it sounds bombastic. 

Trixie arches her back, presses her breasts even more firmly into Katya’s chest. She wants to push Katya. She wants Katya to consume her, burn her up like lighting a sparkler.

“God save me from needy straight girls” Katya sighs.

“I’m not needy...” Trixie protests.

Katya gestures down at their shared bodies, “This might surprise you, but your willingness to rut against me in a room full of people raising money for you boyfriend is not a turn on, and neither is your lack of experience.”

Trixie feels like she’s had a bucket of cold water poured over her. She thinks of Lloyd; Lloyd slicing cheddar cheese and layering it on top of a bar of fruit and nut. Lloyd kissing her grandmother’s hand. 

She tries to rear back from Katya, but there’s nowhere to go. The bar is at her back, and Katya doesn’t move from where she’s standing in between Trixie’s legs.

She could push Katya out of the way; jump down from the stool and give her a hard shove. She doesn’t.

Instead, she wraps her hand around the back of Katya’s neck. Trixie vividly remembers the feel of it under her fingers from their kiss in Onllwyn. Lloyd has a miner’s neck, with bulky trapezius muscles between his neck and shoulders. But Katya’s neck is a slim column, and it’s easy for Trixie to draw her in by it.

The short hair at the nape of Katya’s neck is even more damp with sweat than the hair at her temples. Trixie’s fingers are sticky with it.

Katya’s face is so close to hers now, her pupils large and dark. Sweat is running down either side of her nose. Her mouth is half open.

“I know what I want," Trixie grinds out, for herself as much as Katya. Just one night, and she’ll go home and be the most doting daughter, the most faithful girlfriend that she can be. She swears it to herself. She won't mock Mabli, she'll always clean away the plates after dinner. Just one night. Trixie crashes their lips together. Katya’s lips don’t move against hers. Trixie makes a noise of frustration and tries to press harder against Katya’s mouth with her own. 

Katya’s hands press against Trixie’s collarbones. The force of them makes Trixie moan into her mouth, but then she’s being shoved away.

Trixie whines as Katya puts distance between the two of them, gaping her mouth like a fish pulled from the water. 

“Come with me to the loos, ” Trixie pants.

Katya laughs darkly, “Ah, the natural habitat of my people.”

Trixie shakes her head. It feels too heavy. She’s only had that wine in the hotel and a couple of pints, but she feels like they are sitting solidly in her stomach.

“I don’t think this is going to work, sugar.” Katya says.

”No!” shouts Trixie, grabbing the cuff of Katya’s jacket, "Don’t go!”

“I have to go back to my friends,” says Katya, unwrapping Trixie’s fingers from where they dig into the leather.

Trixie needs to persuade Katya to stay. She begs, “I could come with you, tell them what life is really like in the Vall-”

“I’m sure they heard Dai talking earlier. They’ll just want to dance,” Katya cuts her off. 

Trixie wants to cry with embarrassment and frustration.

Katya pulls the lapels of her jacket together and stalks off around the edge of the crowd.

Trixie picks up one of the cheap tealight candles set in a line along the bar. She lets the hot metal casing burn the tips of her fingers. She focuses on that until the sting in her eyes and lump in her throat subsides. 

She finds her way back to Mabli. She’s dancing with two of the boys from the colliery, spliff hanging from her fingers.

“Trixie! You’ve been gone ages! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get angry!" She exclaims, wrapping her arms around Trixie, smashing her sweaty cheek against her sister’s.

“I caught up with that girl you dared me to talk to. She was tidy,” says Trixie, deliberately casually.

Mabli seems unconcerned. She gathers all her hair in one hand to get a breeze to her neck, and then lets it go and shakes it loose in time to the drum solo going on onstage.

“I’m having so much fun, Trixie!” She shouts.

“I’m glad you are Mabs.”

Mabli grabs Trixie’s hand again, “Graham’s such an old fart. You’ll never believe it. He never wants to come dancing. I love dancing. I wish we could dance every weekend,” Trixie’s sister’s voice is childish in its intensity.

“I always thought he was such a fun guy,” Trixie deadpans.

“You know he’s looking to buy a house in that new estate close to the motorway? All the houses have at least three bedrooms and their own drives,” Mabli shouts in Trixie’s ear.

Trixie grabs her sister’s hands, tries to keep her dancing as much as possible. She doesn’t have the patience for her talking nonsense.

Trixie lets the music move her as she stares across the dancefloor.

Mabli is dancing between Lloyd’s two friends, letting them spin her under her arms. Her limbs are almost too relaxed, and she cheers and whoops every time the lights change colour.

Trixie watches two women dance. They don’t look too dissimilar from Katya, with short blonde hair and bare faces.

One of them has a red bandana on her left wrist. The other has one around her neck, knot twisted to the right side. They both wear blue dungarees, and dance as if they were jogging on the spot, pumping their forearms.

They smile at each other, mouthing the words to the songs. For a second, they break apart for one of them to do a twist. Trixie stares at the negative space they leave, watches the dust-motes swirl in the column of pink light. Katya is standing near the stage, staring through the smoke right at Trixie. It reminds her of the optical illusion of the candlestick and the two faces. If she tries she can see the couple dancing, leaning in to nuzzle their noses against each other. But then her eyes refocus, and she can only see Katya in the space between them. 

Katya reaches slowly into her jacket and pulls out a fag. Propping it between her lips, she manages to reach into her jeans for her lighter and light it without taking her eyes off Trixie. She puffs out the smoke forcefully, nostrils flaring. 

Trixie runs her own hands down her waist, over the front of the skirt where she can feel the bump of her suspender belt clip. She stares back harder.

As her legs scissor together, she feels the difference between her sweaty thighs and the whisper of her stockings.

Katya circles the peripheries of the dance floor, and Trixie feels her jaguar eyes tracking her. The weight of Katya’s gaze is as thick as oil paint; it smears across her chest, dribbles down her legs.

Sooner than Trixie would like, the last band makes one final plea to the audience to dump their loose change in the buckets for the miners. The lights come up and the revellers throw their arms across their eyes to shield them from the crass yellow light overhead.

“Do you know the way back to the B&B?” Mabli bellows, before realising that she doesn’t need to now that the music has been shut off.

The entrance is crowded. They queue for a while just to get out of the bottleneck at the door. They shout across the crowd to get the attention of the others who came up on the bus from Onllwyn. Other than Trixie and Mabli, everyone is staying with a volunteer from LGSM. They all look aimlessly for the gay or lesbian housing them, like a child lost in the supermarket looking for its mother. 

When Trixie gets outside, the cold, dry air meets the cigarette smoke in the back of her throat and she can’t stop coughing. Her cheeks are overheated, and she leaves her coat folded over her arm. Trixie has her little sister’s hand in hers, while Mabli rummages in her handbag with her other hand to find the map to the B&B. 

“We need Owain! Where’s Owain? He’s staying with Marcus and Terry!” Someone shouts across the pavement. 

Trixie looks around at the partygoers dribbling out on the street. In normal light they look less fantastical. She sees their pockmarks and their beards pushing through, and the missing diamantes on their earrings.

And then there’s Katya. Standing a little distance away from the crowd, smoking underneath the lamplight. She looks just as she did at the top of the hill in Onllwyn. Trixie wants to go back to that moment.

“Mabs, hang on a sec…” Trixie says, squeezing Mabli’s hand as she lets go.

Mabli nods distractedly. She's busy poring over her map with one of the boys, arguing about the route.

“Yeah, we’re waiting for Owain anyway,” Mabli says.

Trixie approaches Katya, glancing over both shoulders as she does. Katya copies her movements and exaggerates them, like a cat-burglar in a children's cartoon. 

Laughter bubbles up in Trixie's chest as she stands on the edge of the pavement, toes hanging over the edge of the kerb. 

“You coming then,” Katya asks, “Or what?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4, p.2. 
> 
> Potential triggers: Mild allusions to male violence. Alcohol and nicotine use.

**10th – 11th December 1984**

Trixie looks back at Mabli and the others from their village. Most of them have been picked up by their LGSM hosts now. The lads are dancing in the road, kicking their legs up into the air like a chorus line. They’re drunk, but they’ve certainly been drunker. Mabli’s perfectly capable of getting back to the B&B by herself. 

Trixie hopes that Mabli is capable of getting back alone, anyway, because Trixie seems to be beyond the point of doing the sensible thing. Trixie nods at Katya, her mouth dry.

Katya returns her nod briskly, then spins on her heels and walks away. Trixie scrambles to keep up, and soon they join a large group of women all dressed in leather and denim.

The women walk home in silence. They don’t talk about the route, they just turn down side streets as one unit. Right, left, left, right. Trixie finds herself in the middle of the formation, surrounded on all sides. She feels as though she is being escorted home by wolves. Trixie looks up at Katya’s face. She looks focused. Her eyes are always scanning the parked cars, the faces of men on the other side of the street. 

Trixie barely sees the house before she’s being ushered into it. She glimpses a front garden and a bay window, those distinctive London yellow bricks.

Once inside the house, the pack explode in noise.

“Who wants a drink?” A woman sat on the stairs shouts as she unlaces her heavy black boots.

“Just a tea, thanks,” says another, unwinding a scarf from around her throat and hanging it on the end of the bannister.

A bald woman leans against a side table overflowing with unopened letters. “Is anyone up for cards?” She asks, “Or a spliff in the garden?”

From deeper in the house, music starts up. The heavy drums seem to vibrate through the floor.

“Someone put some fucking potato waffles under the grill!” shouts a woman as she thunders up the stairs. 

Katya silently slides Trixie’s jacket off her shoulders and places it on top of the groaning heap of fabric looped over the bannister. Next, she lifts each of Trixie’s hands one by one; working off her woollen gloves. She balls them up and pokes them into the pockets of Trixie’s jacket.

Katya presses her smaller hand into Trixie’s and speaks quietly into her ear, “Let’s go straight upstairs, shall we?” 

Trixie follows meekly, fairly sure that Katya must be able to feel the pulse in her palm where she’s holding it. 

Katya kicks open a door at the top of the stairs. There’s a desk lamp with a silk scarf thrown over it to give it a softer glow. Trixie barely has time to take in the posters, pictures, slogans and signs pasted up messily around the room before her eyes fall on the couple kissing messily on a bed on one side of the room. One of them keeps making light, breathy noises into the other’s mouth.

Trixie grabs on to Katya’s elbow, “Katya, this room is taken, there’s – “

“It’s my room,” Katya answers shortly. She points at the empty single bed at the other end of the room, “That’s mine.”

The other two women pull apart with a wet, smacking sound. Their lipstick is smudged and mixed together in a kind of halo radiating out from their mouths.

“Why are you being a dick, Katya? We always just – “

“Turn the lights off and keep to our own sides,” Katya finishes. 

They all turn to look at Trixie expectantly. One of the women, a beautiful black girl with cheekbones like Naomi Campbell, props herself up on her elbows. The other holds the sheets under her chin and smiles encouragingly. 

Trixie thinks of the four of them humping in the dark. The noises, the smells they’d make. It shoots a dirty thrill from the top of her spine to the bottom of her toes.

She wonders whether it will make what she is about to do better or worse in the eyes of everyone she knows. Four girls gone wild at a party, or the slow, deliberate unfurling of herself to one other person.

She looks at Katya beseechingly, trying to convey her helplessness with her eyes.

Katya sits down on the bed and starts pulling off her Docs. Her socks look hand knitted. The carpet is puke-green and thin, peeling up at the corners.

“Would you mind fucking off to another room?” Trixie blurts, when she realises that Katya isn’t going to speak up.

Katya’s head snaps around to stare at her.

Trixie puts her hands on her hips and speaks again, “I’m not being funny or nothing, but this is the first time I’ve ever done it with a woman, and I’m not doing it in front of an audience.” Her accent makes her sound both childish and crass, and it breaks the tension.

“Fine,” says one of the women, “But we’re shagging in the hall. There are no other rooms free.”

The two of them gather up their pillows and blankets and stomp out to the hall. Trixie hears the soft thud of the fabric against the carpet.

“They aren’t going to shag _right_ there, are they?” Katya asks. 

There is a muffled yelp and a thump from the bottom of the door that sounds very much like a head knocking against it.

“Apparently so,” Trixie says dryly.

She plops herself down next to Katya, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Katya runs her hand over her hair, the bristles springing back up as her palm passes over them.

“I love Shea, but sometimes she does my fucking head in.”

As if on cue, a more insistent thump comes through the door, followed by a longer, higher shriek that makes the skin on Trixie’s arms stand on end.

Katya moves off the bed to stand in front of Trixie. She stands with her legs firmly planted on the floor, her shoulders square and parallel with the line of her hips. Katya grabs the sides of her jacket and, for the first time, peels it off her shoulders. Trixie’s mouth dries up as she waits for Katya’s skin to be revealed.

Trixie’s breath hitches as she takes in Katya’s shoulders and arms. The sleeves of her t-shirt have been roughly cut off, exposing pale skin and uneven, sketchy tattoos of what seem to be occult symbols. 

Her arms are more muscular than Trixie was expecting. The dim light bounces off their curves and ridges. She wants to bite them.

Katya leans down and pinches Trixie’s chin in between her fingers, and brings it to her. The kiss is less frenetic than the other ones that she has shared with Katya. Katya very slowly teases Trixie’s lips with her own, all the while massaging the back of her scalp with her fingers.

Katya pulls off her t-shirt next. The miner’s head twists and distorts as she does, and it finally disappears when she throws it behind her on to the floor. Trixie can’t help letting out a sigh of relief when she can’t see the disapproving face of the miner any more. 

She looks in fascination at Katya’s torso, takes in the slight swell of her breasts and the inward slope of her waist. 

Trixie suddenly becomes aware of her mouth hanging open a little. 

Katya’s skin is pasty-white, with wide dark moles like 2p pieces dotted over the surface of her skin. Trixie badly wants to touch her, but Katya crawls behind her on the bed before she can. Trixie feels Katya’s soft nipples brush against her shoulders as Katya settles behind Trixie. 

Katya brushes Trixie’s hair off one of her shoulders, and trails kisses down Trixie’s neck and back up to the shell of her ear. She noses through Trixie’s hairline, where she’s sure she smells of cigarette smoke, hairspray and sweat. 

Trixie’s own breathing gets harsher and louder as Katya continues her delicate ministrations. Outside, the noises start coming quicker, they go up and up in pitch. 

Katya slowly winds her hand around Trixie’s middle, “Are you cold?” she says, “Are you comfortable?” 

“I feel good, really good,” Trixie whispers back.

Katya manoeuvres Trixie so she’s lying flat on the bed, Katya twisted around her.

Katya pulls out Trixie’s t-shirt from where it’s tucked into her skirt. She starts playing with the hem, folding it mindlessly into a concertina between her fingers. 

“Can I pull this up?” Katya asks timidly.

Trixie nods, and Katya lifts the t-shirt off Trixie. She takes a long, deep breath through her nose when she gets a good look at Trixie’s breasts, pushed tight together in her bra.

Katya strokes her finger lightly along the lace trim at the bottom of the cup.

Trixie is sensitive there and Katya’s featherlight touches make her shiver, but don’t come close to satiating her. She arches up under Katya’s hand, but Katya never presses any harder. She just skims her fingers across Trixie’s stomach instead. Katya spreads her fingers over the soft flesh under Trixie’s belly-button, and Trixie thinks that Katya is going to grab a handful of her gut. But she doesn’t. She just sweeps her hand back up to Trixie’s bra again. 

Trixie loses patience, “Um, I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know that I will fucking explode if you don’t do _something_.”

Katya’s eyes go dark and cunning. She swings herself around and down off the bed backwards, kneeling on the floor next to the bed. Trixie looks at her spread knees in her blue jeans, at the way her tiny tummy crumples over the waistband. Trixie wants to draw her hands, or her toes, up along the inseam of the denim.

Katya runs one of her dainty hands over Trixie’s knee and tugs at her skirt, “Take this off and come and fuck my face.”

Trixie splutters, “How do I, uh, do that?”

“Stand up,” Katya instructs.

Trixie obeys, reaches behind herself to tug down her zip, then lets Katya pull her skirt to the floor. Trixie kicks it over to the corner, followed by her suspenders and cotton knickers.

Trixie stands in front of Katya, wearing only her bra. 

Katya immediately noses through her pubic hair, presses her face firmly to the fat over her mons. She breathes in deeply enough to drown out the moaning coming from elsewhere in the house.

“I love the way you smell,” whispers Katya, “I want to taste you.”

Trixie’s knees weaken.

Katya reaches one hand up to grab a handful of Trixie’s arse, squashing the swell of it between her fingers. She hooks the other hand between Trixie’s thigh, giving her a bit more support. 

“Put your feet a bit further apart. Bend your knees a bit more. Yes, that’s it. Fuck,” Katya murmurs.

Katya nuzzles down into Trixie’s vulva, and Trixie can’t stop herself from yelping and rocking forward and back on the balls of her feet.

“Fuck,” breathes Katya, “You’re drenched.”

Katya opens her jaw wider and fucks her tongue upwards into Trixie, fluttering it over her clit before laving a wider circle around her hood.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Trixie pants.

“That’s it. Fuck my face. Yes,” Katya chants into her.

Trixie isn’t sure how much she should move her hips. Katya’s tongue is making her tremble, but she did also tell Trixie she wanted her to _fuck_ her face. She tries a tentative thrust down onto Katya’s face, and they both groan. 

Before long, Trixie is rocking her hips back and forth over Katya’s mouth, nose and chin. 

Trixie grips Katya’s hair tight in one hand and takes hold of Katya’s bedside cabinet with the other. Trixie’s grip is tight enough that the cabinet knocks against the wall with every thrust of Trixie’s hips. Katya’s lamp rattles and her and books wobble precariously.

Katya’s instructions echo in her head to, spurring her on. 

Trixie’s moans mesh with the ones coming from other rooms all around them. A headboard is banging against the wall in the room next door, accompanied by a slapping sound. The house is buzzing, thrumming with shared pleasure. It sounds like another woman is shrieking in the room above them, and the noises she is making are pushing Trixie along. She’s moaning in the same pitch as the other woman, the same pace. It’s getting faster and faster and she’s moving her hips faster and harder over Katya’s face.

Katya isn’t making much sound. Trixie can only hear her humming faintly, and the squelching, sticky sound that Trixie’s vulva makes as it passes over her face. She is pushing up into Trixie just as hard as Trixie is pushing down, and Trixie can feel the vibrations from her humming right into her clit.

Katya pulls back a little, “Come on, Trixie. Come on my face. Please,” she begs. Her eyes are wide and desperate, lips puffy and shining.

Trixie does the only thing she can think of to do, drag Katya back by her short blonde hair and continue riding her face. The muscles in her thighs are burning and she doesn’t know how long her legs will hold out for. Her knees keep trying to turn inwards with the pleasure of it, toes curling inside her stockings. 

Trixie grits her teeth and screws down onto Katya’s face as the moaning from the hallway and the room above them seems to reach their crescendo. 

Katya’s hand inch back up to Trixie’s stomach and hips. Katya pushes her fingers into Trixie’s skin and drags them down her stomach as if she’s trying to pull Trixie’s orgasm down through her tightly-wound body and into Katya’s mouth.

It’s working. Her knees are shaking. She grips the back of Katya’s head with both of her hands and pulls it forcefully up into her. The tip of Katya’s nose must be squashed sideways.

“Yes!” Trixie shouts, “Fuck, Katya – yes!” 

Trixie’s knees sag and she sinks back down onto the mattress, breathing harshly.

The thumping noise in the room next door pauses. Someone laughs and shouts “Woo hoo!” and then the thumping resumes.

Trixie can’t help laughing along with them. 

Katya scrambles back onto the bed with a smile splitting her face, her bright teeth gleaming in the lamplight. 

“That was lush,” pants Trixie. 

Katya lies next to Trixie. They listen to the screeching still coming from the hallway and the room above. Trixie is sure that Katya must be able to hear the hammering of her heart even above the din.

When she has got her breath back, Trixie crawls on top. She licks her own come off Katya’s face while fumbling with her belt, and for a moment she feels competent. But when she reaches down to Katya’s jeans and there’s no straining dick, she falters.

“Just fuck me,” Katya pants, “Just get inside me.”

Trixie looks down at Katya. She watches the way that Katya’s small breasts move on her chest when she wiggles impatiently, and Trixie decides to ignore Katya’s words for the moment. 

Trixie leans down, cups her tongue around Katya’s nipple and suckles at it as Katya rears up, pushes her jeans down and off the bed.

Katya seizes Trixie’s hand and turns her palm over to see her nails.

“Yeah, these will do. I’d thought you’d have long nails to complete the _look_.”

Trixie scoffs, “Not with all the fucking sandwiches I’ve been making down the Welfare Hall. I’m the fastest bread butterer in south Wales, and you can’t do that with talons.”

Katya laughs, but then gives Trixie a deeper look that makes the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. 

“Take your bra off,” Katya says

Trixie does. She unfastens the clip at the back and lets the straps fall down her shoulders. She supports her boobs with her forearm, trying to squeeze them together with the crook of her elbow.  
Katya strokes her finger down Trixie’s forearm and Trixie lets Katya peels her own arm away, letting her breasts fall more naturally on her chest. Katya flutters her fingers over them reverently. 

“Grab them,” Trixie instructs. 

Katya opens her hands. The span of her hands don't cover much beyond Trixie’s nipples. 

Katya squeezes and groans long and low when her fingers sink in to the soft skin. 

“Trixie, you have to fuck me now,” Katya demands. She grabs Trixie’s hand and brings it down to her pussy.

Katya’s hip bones stand up beneath her freckled skin, and her mons is much flatter than Trixie’s.

Trixie likes how desperate Katya is for her. She sits back on her knees and lets Katya manoeuvre her until she’s two knuckles deep.

“Go on,” Katya urges. Her pupils are blown, and her lips are the colour of fresh raspberries. 

Katya is soft and wet, but Trixie is surprised by the bumpy, fleshy bits that seem to push back at her fingers. Trixie has never felt that deep inside a cunt before, or felt it with as much concentration. Trixie is lazy when she touches herself, she sticks to her clit unless she can be bothered to use the handle of her sister’s big wooden hairbrush. 

Katya arches her back and keens when Trixie flutters her fingers. Katya’s cunt seems to suck at the tips of her fingers when she pulls back. She becomes mesmerised by trying to provoke different reactions from Katya.

Katya’s heels start drumming on the mattress and Trixie fucks her to the beat of it, making Katya writhe in the sheets. 

It’s different, fucking instead of being fucked. Katya letting her into her dark, squelching heat. Trixie learning how to jolt a yelp, or a whimper, out of Katya by curling her fingers up and rubbing steadily.

The longer she fucks Katya, the wetter Katya gets. Trixie feels confident to add another finger and Katya grunts as she stretches. Katya’s eyes flutter closed as Trixie pushes deeper, a little frown appears between her eyes.

Trixie feels like a horse in a race, pushing for the finish line. Her shoulder aches all the way down through her elbow and into her wrist. But it’s a dull, easily forgettable pain when she feels like she’s floating above it all too, fixated upon jamming herself into Katya as fast and hard as possible. She wants to fold herself up inside Katya like a letter in an envelope. 

“Come lie over me,” Katya pants.

At first, she braces herself over Katya so she doesn’t crush her. But then she lets more of her weight rest on Katya. Trixie groans reflexively as she feels her big breasts squash against Katya’s narrow chest, feels their hard nipples rub together. She undulates against Katya so she can feel their sticky skin press together. 

Trixie can’t stop moaning. She feels alive, every nerve-ending singing. She rocks her hips into Katya with the same rhythm she used to ride her face. Katya reaches between their bodies to touch herself, and her feverishly flexing knuckles push into Trixie’s stomach. Every time they do she feels it shoot down to her cunt. She shuffles up the bed a little so that Katya’s knuckles massage her mons instead, pushing her flesh around so that she might as well be touching her clit. 

Katya’s lip is caught between her teeth and she folds her chin down to wedge her face between Trixie’s tits. Katya’s breath escapes in noisy bubbles that make them both laugh. Soon, there’s a river of Katya’s drool running between Trixie’s breasts. Katya’s legs are folded around Trixie’s broad hips and Trixie is grunting every time she screws her finger into Katya. Katya’s cunt is giving as good as it’s getting, clenching and squeezing down on Trixie’s hand, until Katya finally flops back flops back bonelessly with one last yell. 

They pant in the dark. Every time Trixie thinks it might be time to bring her fingers out, Katya’s muscles start spasming around her. Trixie wiggles her fingers to see if Katya has any more in her. Katya moans and presses her hips back down on to Trixie’s fingers, and another few minutes slide by. When Katya’s cunt has finally stopped twitching, Trixie pulls her fingers out. She admires the wrinkles on her fingertips. 

“Are you done? Done, done?” Katya asks.

“No,” Trixie wails helplessly.

Katya reaches between them, and she’s so wet that Trixie can barely feel her at all. Katya rubs her thumb lightly and quickly over Trixie’s clit. Every time Trixie hisses from the overstimulation Katya rubs her fingers down either side of Trixie’s clit so that she can bear it. Soon Trixie is crying out in her second orgasm, thrashing enough to knock the bedhead against the wall with enough force that Trixie is certain that it will be heard in other rooms.

They fall back on the bed together. The sheets are wet beneath them. The banging continues upstairs but at a slower, more sensuous pace. There’s no noise from the hall any more. The underside of Trixie’s breasts are wet with sweat. 

Trixie doesn’t notice herself falling asleep until she startles awake some time later. The lamp has been switched off. The house is even quieter. No chatter, no music. Trixie leaves Katya’s room and makes her way to the bathroom. She has to pick her way through the people sleeping in the hall. There’s not just Shea and whoever was with her, but a number of other women curled up together along the long hallway. 

Trixie takes a long look at herself in the mirror. She touches her face, prods at her chubby cheeks. In the gloomy bathroom the skin under her eyes is so dark it looks bruised. Her eyeshadow has lost its shape at the edges. 

She was expecting to see something different. A shift in her eyes, perhaps. Something to represent the fact that, whatever Katya’s gender, she’s failed to keep her promises to the person she claims to love the most.

To distract herself she opens the door to the bathroom cabinet. She wasn’t sure what she expected lesbians to own, but everything is disappointingly mundane. There’s a large grey tub of Sudocrem, and a brand of mouthwash that she’s seen her mum buy. 

Trixie’s stomach is churning, and she sinks down onto the toilet. She taps her feet against the peeling lino floor. She’ll just have a quick wee, and then she’ll go back to Katya’s room. She won’t get back into Katya’s bed, she’ll just go and lie on Shea’s bed. She’ll stay quiet enough that she won’t wake Katya, and in the morning she’ll calmly explain that it was a mistake.

Someone pokes her head around the door when Trixie’s in mid-flow. She doesn’t excuse herself and leave the bathroom. Instead, she comes straight in and closes the door behind her.

The woman sits at the edge of the bath, "Sorry love, I'm just bursting for a pee." 

She has a voice that reminds Trixie of the woman that reads the evening news; undeniably well-educated but with something soft and compassionate about it too. Her hair is mousy brown and drawn into two fat braids, and she wears a knee length nightgown in a demure powder blue. 

Trixie's stream falters. She's not used to being watched, much less by a stranger.

"Oh sorry, am I putting you off? We're awful here. We just come in whenever. You can't take a book in the bath without someone coming in and asking you what you're reading," says the woman. She finishes with a bright, tinkly laugh, "No one has any respect!" 

Trixie nods tightly then looks at a point above the other woman's head. She covers her breasts with her hands but she knows that the woman will be able to see most of them. 

She tries to encourage herself to pee. In her head, she makes the shush-shush noise her mum used to make for her and Mabli when they were small.

With a huff, Trixie gives up and gets to her feet, “Here, you go first -" She's unsure whether she is supposed to leave, or stay and talk to this woman.

She darts into the space behind Trixie, nightie already hiked up and pissing before her bum even hits the seat. She sighs in relief and then waves her hand at Trixie, gesturing for her to sit on the side of the bath. 

"Did you have a good time at the concert?" Trixie asks.

"Oh no, darling. I wish! I stayed behind with my daughter. You've all been ever so well behaved. I expected the noise to go on right around the clock," she says good-naturedly. 

Trixie tries to mask her surprise at a child living in this sort of a place, at women like this having children. She thought children were taken away from women like Katya.

Trixie asks, "What's her name? How old is she?"

"Aquaria, like the star-sign. I want her to be a great humanitarian. She's two, but she's a good little sleeper. How was the concert?" 

"It was good," says Trixie, "I saw a lot of people throw money in the buckets."

"Well that's the main thing," The woman says agreeably. "Forgive me if this is rude, but I just noticed your accent. Did you come up with the miners?"

At the word, Trixie can't help thinking about Lloyd. Her stomach roils, and suddenly she's not sure if the thin lip of the bath will hold her. The last thing she wants is to fall back and crack her head open. 

The woman's hand shoots out to support Trixie’s back, "Are you alright, my love?"

Trixie lets out a fat sob, and covers her hand with her mouth to stifle it. Her eyes well up with tears that roll down her cheeks before she can try and blink them away. They scorch her raw skin. 

The woman quickly wipes herself and shifts so she sits on the edge of the bath with Trixie. Trixie fixates on the woman’s nightdress. It has a pattern of slightly darker flowers on the light blue background.

She asks kindly, "Who are you staying with?"

"Katya. Brummie Katya," Trixie whimpers. 

"Katya's lovely!" The woman exclaims, "Why don't you tell Katya that you're feeling a bit homesick? She'll look after you."

Trixie would rather eat glass. 

The last thing she wants is for Katya to think that Trixie expects Katya to help Trixie sort out the mess in her head. 

She doesn't want to tell this stranger that she has been unfaithful to her boyfriend, that she has just spent the last couple of hours making passionate love to Katya.

Trixie nods and thanks her, goes to wipe her face with a cold flannel at the sink. 

She thinks that maybe something has changed in her eyes, after all.

The woman stands behind Trixie, gives her shoulder a warm squeeze.

"I'll see you at breakfast, maybe. I hope you feel a bit better in the morning," she whispers. 

"Thanks," Trixie nods, steeling herself to go back into the bedroom.

When she creeps back into the room, she intends makes her way to the empty single bed on Shea's side of the room. Shea took the quilt and pillows with her into the hall, but Trixie's clothes will probably be enough to keep her warm for another couple of hours.

Then she looks over to Katya's bed. The curtains haven't been closed all the way across, and a sliver of moonlight falls over Katya in the bed. Her face is relaxed in sleep; her lips parted on the sheets, fine gold eyelashes fanned over her cheeks. 

Most of Katya's body is wrapped up in the duvet, only her face and her toes stick out. Before she's quite aware of doing it, Trixie peels the quilt away from Katya's body. Trixie touches Katya's stomach and, despite the December cold, finds it burning hot to the touch.

Her legs are splayed open on the mattress, and Trixie can see her vulva. 

Trixie can study it more freely without Katya watching her for her reaction. It looks puffy and velvety soft. She brushes the pad of her finger against it and Katya's outer labia part obediently. The fragile skin slightly sticking to her finger as it passes over them. Inside is pinker, wetter. Trixie traces the folds and patterns of it with her eyes.

Trixie settles herself on her knees between Katya's legs and fluffs up her hair. 

She grabs Katya's thigh and shakes it, "Katya, do you mind if...," Trixie isn't sure how to finish the sentence, so she lets her words trail off as she licks her lips.

Katya is on her back with her legs spread wide in a flash, and Trixie has to choke down a laugh at her eagerness. 

She teases Katya. She draws her hands up and down Katya's thighs, presses her thumbs down a little more firmly each time until Katya is sweating and her hips are bucking. 

With Katya's legs spread so wide, Trixie can stare even more closely at her vulva, watch her get wetter until it starts to ooze and drip, runs down into the bedsheets.

She leans in and darts her tongue over Katya's hood and clitoris. When Katya hisses, Trixie does it again. She tries a longer, flatter swipe of her tongue up the middle of Katya's vulva. Katya trembles and clutches the sides of the mattress. 

As she experiments, Trixie watches Katya's face change from a blissful, radiant smile to bitten lips and screwed up eyes, and then back again. It reminds Trixie of being on the coast, the way the sea-winds push clouds across the sky faster than anywhere else. 

Trixie's mouth gets sloppier with Katya's wetness and her own spit. She's slurping loud enough to drown Katya out. Trixie isn't sure if Katya is being louder this time, or whether it's just the dead silence of the house around them.

Trixie can't comfortably lie flat on her stomach because there's not room for her tits, but she twists her neck and wedges her hands under Katya's arse cheeks to bring her up to her mouth, drinking from her like a bowl.

Katya groans particularly loudly, and from somewhere in the house a child starts crying. Trixie says a silent apology to the woman with the long braids.

Trixie is burning up between her legs, moving her hips steadily into the mattress beneath her.

Katya's hand snatches a lump of Trixie's hair, pulling painfully at her scalp.

"Yes, right there. Gentler. But don't stop," she pants urgently, squirming on the sheets. 

Trixie tries to follow her instructions, barely moving her tongue against Katya. Katya's second fist joins the first in Trixie's hair. Her body bends upwards, straining desperately, the muscles in her stomach jumping under the skin.

When Katya sags back onto the pillows, Trixie feels able to draw herself back from Katya's throbbing vulva.

"Did you - ? Did I make you - ?"

Katya nods, pulls Trixie up her body to settle on her chest. She manoeuvres her leg between Trixie's thighs. Trixie can't help rocking against them, getting faster as her wetness spreads and smooths the way. 

Trixie loses track of time. She can't be sated. Her hands are greedy, her mouth is greedy, her eyes are greedy, her cunt is greedy. She doesn't take her hands off Katya's skin until Katya points at the window, laughing. 

Startled, Trixie looks around the room and, for the first time, notices that everything is illuminated in the blue-indigo hues of dawn.

"When is your bus? We should get some sleep?" Katya asks.

"We're meeting back at the Electric Ballroom at one in the afternoon, the minibus is picking us up from there."

Katya leans in and leaves another series of burning kisses up the side of Trixie's neck, "We can get a few hours of sleep in, then."

Trixie whimpers, "I don't want to sleep."

Katya shakes her head and coaxes Trixie into lying on her side, then spoons behind her. She feels comically large pressed against Katya's back.

"I don't think I can sleep," Admits Trixie. She's barely closed her eyes, but every time she does she starts berating herself.

"I can put a record on?" Katya suggests, "I've forgotten what you like. You said you liked The Cure, right?"

Trixie flinched, "No. Don't put them on. They're Lloyd's favourite."

"I forgot. I'm sorry," says Katya. She speaks so quietly that Trixie can barely hear her, just feels the puff of her breath on Trixie's back.

"Don't worry about it."

"I could put the radio on. I like the listening to the classical station at night," Katya leans over Trixie and starts fiddling with her alarm clock-radio.

The room fills with the noise of a violin being played tenderly. It's dimly familiar, Trixie thinks it might have been played in an advert. Katya turns it down until Trixie can barely hear it. 

"I like this station when I can't sleep," Katya whispers into Trixie's spine, "I like to close my eyes and think about all the people who might also be listening. Other insomniacs. New parents. Truck drivers. Doctors on their way home from work. Doctors on their way _to_ work. Nurses, the same as the doctors. Cleaners..." Katya keeps listing people who may be listening and Trixie deliberately lengthens her breaths to try and get herself to relax. 

Before Katya finishes her list, Trixie falls asleep.

***

Trixie wakes in Katya's room, momentarily disorientated by the unfamiliar surroundings. Her skin feels sore and over-stimulated, her mouth and eyes are dry.

She spends a while staring at the walls. Above the bed, there's a damp patch that seems to form the shape of an old man carrying a bale of hay. Either Katya or Shea have mounted an assortment of exuberantly painted canvasses and homemade political banners on the walls. Some of the slogans are familiar to her, others she doesn’t quite understand. 

One of them says “Lesbianism. Why settle for less?” and Trixie stares at it until her eyes feel like they’re burning. 

Trixie had seen some gay people in newspapers and her magazines, but they seemed as exotic as the tribes photographed in her gran’s copies of National Geographic magazines. 

Trixie can’t quite believe that she’s done what she’s done. 

In the corner of the room there's a tall fireplace made of dark wood. It looks like it would have been grand in its day, but now it's dusty and the only ornaments on the mantle is a collection of empty brown beer bottles. 

Katya is wedged under her armpit, one arm folded awkwardly under Trixie's shoulder blades and the other wrapped around her waist. Trixie can see the blue veins in Katya's rapidly twitching eyelids. She has little bumps on her jawline where the pores are blocked up.

It's easier to look at those than it is to look at the red marks left on Katya’s neck and collarbone, or the fuchsia lipstick that has been worked into the cracked skin on Katya's lips. 

Trixie stares at the curtains for a while, tracing the busy floral pattern with her eyes. She tries to count up whether there are more pink roses, or yellow roses.

She's still counting when she hears Katya clear her throat.

Trixie looks down into Katya's eyes. They’re beautiful, flecks of blue and green in the grey and framed by long translucent lashes.

"Are you okay?" Katya's voice is croaky and hoarse. She must be dying for a cigarette. 

"Fantastic," Trixie says as drily as she can possibly manage. 

Katya laughs loudly until it turns to coughing, and she leans over Trixie to root for a packet of cigarettes in her bedside cabinet. While she's wiggling to reach the bottom of the drawer their bodies rub against each other, and Trixie moans softly. 

Katya lights two fags, hands Trixie one. She twists herself out of Trixie's arms and lies on her belly next to her.

"Are you going back?" Katya asks.

"Yeah, my bus leaves at one. They're picking us all up from the Electric Ballroom."

"But are you going back for good?"

Trixie is exasperated, "What else am I going to do?"

Katya talks rapidly around her cigarette, "Well there are lots of squats like this in London. There are always spaces opening up and women come from all over. We had an American come for a month or two last year. There are anti-nuclear houses, communist houses -"

Trixie interrupts, "We're on strike, in case you'd forgotten. I'm the only one earning in my house, Katya. My parents haven't eaten anything that hasn't come out of a tin for months. I can't fuck off to London. And I can't have this conversation before I've had some brekkie."

At that, the door opens. Shea stumbles through it, dressed in a paint stained t-shirt.

"Fucking hell," Shea shouts, "It smells like one big fanny in here. Open a window! Sasha has just been in the shower and I'm going to bath later. Do you want my slot?"

Katya carelessly lifts her arm to sniff her own armpit, "Yeah, I probably need a wash. You coming?" she asks Trixie.

Trixie nods. Her skin feels sticky with residue from last night, and her hair is stiff and brittle with hairspray.

Katya finds them two grey, stiff towels and leads Trixie to the bathroom. The shower is over the bath, a long metal hose with a cracked plastic head roughly tied up to a pole on the wall.

The water is cold and spurts erratically. Trixie's shoulders prickle with goosepimples and Katya moves to rub her hands over the tops of Trixie's arms to warm them up.

Katya takes another step into Trixie's space, presses their chests together. Katya's shorter but her breasts are smaller and higher than Trixie's and they line up nicely. Trixie wraps her around Katya's waist to pull her closer. It feels electric.

Katya leans back and tips a bottle of shampoo out over on her palm, slapping the bottom until a sufficient amount runs out. 

"Let me," says Trixie. She swipes the small pool of shampoo from Katya's palm and lathers it up between her own hands.

Trixie turns Katya so her back is against Trixie's chest and starts massaging the shampoo through her scalp.

Katya is responsive, she shivers and moans and pushes herself up on her toes into Trixie's hands.

Trixie massages the bony lumps behind the back of Katya's ears, all down the vertebrae of her neck to the top of the spine. She finds herself cataloguing each place where Katya is more sensitive than normal. 

Katya hums with pleasure, let's out little vocalisations of, "That feels so good" and, "Yes, right there."

Trixie laughs at her, "You remind me of my old dog."

"Arf," says Katya wryly.

Rinsing Katya's hair free of suds takes so long that they end up kissing under the meagre spray while the soap drains from it. 

When Katya's hair is finally rinsed, Trixie bends her knees so that Katya can wash her hair. Her hands are deft and assured, working down each section of Trixie's hair before leaving it to the side and grabbing another. Rinsing Trixie off takes even longer, and Trixie tests her luck by reaching her fingers down between Katya's legs. 

"I don't think we should," says Katya. She gently moves Trixie's hand away. 

"Why not?"

"Last night was... Last night. But I think you should have a think about what comes next, before we do any more of that."

Trixie's face flushes and she is suddenly grateful for the cold spray pelting it.

Her throat tightens but she tries to speak. She can't seem to make sound. When she moves her lips nothing comes out. The shower water fills the empty space between her tongue and teeth. She spits it out over their feet, within seconds it's washed away.

"I think I'm almost done," says Trixie. She clambers over the side of the bath and wraps herself in Katya's rough towel. Katya brought two towels to the bathroom, and in a moment of malice Trixie picks up the second one and wraps it around her hair.

Katya follows her back to the bathroom, sauntering along the hallway in the nude.

The stockings Trixie was wearing have laddered all the way up, so she balls them up and throws them in the bin. Her legs will just have to get cold. She pulls her knickers on inside-out and squeezes herself into the tight skirt she was wearing last night.

Yesterday the slash in her t-shirt felt sexy, but today it just feels sleazy. Katya offers to hold the edges of the fabric closed with a couple of safety pins for her. She does it with an endearing frown of concentration, before standing back and pronouncing it, "very punk."

Trixie glances over at the stack of drawings and the shoebox of half-empty paint tubes on the desk. She wishes that she could stay a while, talk to Katya about her creations and how she makes a living.

Instead, Trixie stuffs her feet into her heels and watches Katya dress. Katya picks out a pair of jeans that dwarf her shapely legs and the curve of her arse, and then pulls in the waist with a thick belt. Next, she skips a bra and pulls on a high-necked white t-shirt. 

Trixie fixates on Katya's waist. It disturbs her that she can so easily imagine looping her arms around Katya, pulling her into Trixie's body. She regrets not giving each of her freckles a final kiss before they were covered. 

"Are you getting your fill?" asks Katya. She is watching Trixie watch her in the mirror while she pulls on a leather waistcoat over the top of her outfit.

"What?" asks Trixie.

"Are you getting your fill? For when you'll need it,"

Trixie continues to lock her eyes on Katya's through the mirrors. She dares her to go further, "When’s that then?"

Katya smirks, "Tonight. Your wedding night. Every other night up until you eventually get boozed up enough to find yourself clawing your nails down the back of some other miner's wife in that alley behind the corner shop."

Trixie's watches her own face fall in the mirror. She tries to keep her voice as stony and unfeeling as she can, "Get me some breakfast, you fucking rotten cunt." 

Katya reaches out and grabs Trixie's hand, "I'm sorry, I was only joking."

"No you weren't," Trixie shoots back.

Katya doesn't let go of her hand. She tries to pull Trixie in to her side. 

"Trixie, I'm genuinely sorry. I know this must be hard for you. I've been through it myself. It's easy to forget how upset-"

"It's not hard!" Trixie bellows, "It's not upsetting!"

She sounds like a child and she knows it. It is both hard and upsetting. The lies burn her stomach like acid. 

Katya holds her hands out in surrender, "Right, fine. Let's go downstairs and see if Shea has got something hot and greasy under the grill.”

Trixie follows Katya downstairs to where the living room and kitchen have been roughly knocked together to make one room. 

There are two squashy, mis-matched sofas, and a number of bikes stacked up behind them. In the corner of the room a small TV is showing an old black and white film, and there’s a coffee table covered in dirty dishes in front of it. 

Three women lounge on the sofa under a selection of knitted blankets. Shea is at the bottom of the pile, wearing dark sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. Katya waves hello to the women lying on the sofa. She introduces Trixie to them and they each give her a half-hearted wave, before turning back to the film. A fourth woman wanders in and flops down on the sofa on top of the other girls, then shuffles until she’s ensconced in the blankets too. 

Katya asks them, “What are you watching?” 

Shea answers, “Some old Lauren Bacall film. We’re counting up the amount of times she changes her hat.”

A woman with a strong Liverpool accent says, “We’re up to five.”

“Six,” says Shea.

“Shea won’t listen,” says the Liverpudlian, “But there was only one fucking beret.”

“So are you Welsh?” One of the women on the sofa asks Trixie.

“Yeah. I came down for the concert, like.”

The girl smirks, “I thought I could hear someone shrieking like a banshee in a Welsh accent last night. _’Oh, that’s fucking lush, that is_ ’” She imitates the most stereotypical variation of the south Walian accent. 

Katya looks at her sternly, “Pipe down Violet. It’s not like we were the only ones shagging last night. I’m going to get me and Trixie some breakfast.”

Shea gestures to the kitchen part of the room, “The leftovers are in the oven. Bread on the table. Butter in the fridge.”

In the corner of the room, Trixie notices that the door to the electricity meter is open. The wires look like they have been half ripped out, and then connected up again with crocodile clips. 

“Do you steal your electricity?” Trixie asks Katya. 

Katya turns from where she is rooting in the fridge, “Yeah, why?”

“It’s just a bit…,” Trixie says.

Katya puts her hand on her hip, “What? When society doesn’t fuck me, I won’t fuck it back.”

Trixie can’t help smiling at Katya’s indignant face. She changes the topic, “So is there any breakfast then?”

Katya opens the oven door. There’s a wave of heat and of a rich, savoury smell that makes Trixie’s stomach growl. Katya picks up a grubby pair of oven gloves and pulls out two large glass dishes. 

One is full of bacon, sausage and dark, gelatinous discs of black pudding. The other has fried potatoes and fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and paler, drier looking sausages that must be vegetarian. 

The eggs are hard and the bacon is dried out, but it’s been so long since Trixie has been able to afford a cooked breakfast. She’s salivating as she serves herself a little bit of everything. Katya grabs a square slice of white bread from a bag at the centre of the table and scoops mushrooms into the middle of it, folding the bread around to make a butty. She eats savagely, dunking the corner in a pool of brown sauce.

Trixie finds herself staring at the fridge door. It’s been decorated with pages of bright crayon drawings, and Trixie wonders if they’ve been done by Aquaria. In the middle of the drawings is a large sheet of paper with a detailed rota on it. It’s crumpled and tea-stained and covered in scribbles and corrections, and the chores seem to cover everything from _'Aquaria story time'_ to _'get leaves out of the guttering'_. 

Another sheet has a list of meetings for the coming week, and Trixie notes that Katya will be attending meetings for both LGSM and a group called Lesbian Artists Against War this week.  


Trixie can’t help being jealous of Katya living in a whole house of other women around her age. 

Trixie lowers her voice so the women on the sofa can’t hear, “Do you think it’s weird that I’m twenty-three and I’ve only ever lived with my parents?”

“No,” Katya answers around a mouthful of bread and mushrooms, “Most people where I’m from live at home until they get married. What’s The Meatsack going to be like to live with?”

Trixie cringes but answers honestly, “Nice, I think. His only irritating habit is bad guitar playing.”

“Toilet seat?”

“Always down. His mum wouldn’t tolerate anything else.”

Katya gives a small smile and swipes her bread crust in the last of the brown sauce. 

"Sounds like you're sorted then," says Katya. 

Another woman wanders in the back door, balancing a box of vegetables on her arm.

The woman says, “I got the last of the kale and the parsnips. I’ve left the leeks in because they’re probably not ready,” she says, arranging the produce on the counter-top. 

“You have a garden?” Trixie asks.

“More of an allotment,” says Katya, “We try and grow as much as we can. Fame’s mad for it, she wants to get some chickens so we can have as many eggs as we need.”

“It’s a good idea!” the gardener says, “We could sell them down the market as well. And chickens make great pets. They are intelligent, you know. They can recognise their own names and learn simple commands and – “

Katya cuts Fame off, “Trixie, your bus leaves in half an hour. We should probably leave. I’ll come with you so I can help you with your bag.”

Trixie doesn’t need Katya’s help with her bag, but she enjoys Katya’s impassioned commentary about their neighbourhood. In the daylight there’s a lot more to see, Trixie would like to linger at the grocer’s stall and examine the spiky, weird fruits she doesn’t know the name of. 

***

At the corner, Katya pulls Trixie back by her wrist.

“Hang on, Trixie. I’ll leave you here, but I want to give you these first.”

She gives her two battered business cards. The first says "London Lesbian and Gay Switchboard" next to a phone number and a pink triangle. 

"You probably don't want to talk to me about what you're feeling, but these guys can help. They're really good at listening. You can call them any time," Katya says earnestly.

The second one says, "London Women's Housing Cooperative." There’s a printed phone number with a handwritten one underneath.

Katya points at the first, "They can help you if you find yourself at a loose end. Whatever the reason. The second one number is for the phone at my house. We've been cut off before, but I'll give the number to you anyway."

Trixie tucks the cards away in the pocket of her handbag, between her pocket mirror and the folded-up directions to the B&B.

Katya's hand disappears into the lining of her leather jacket and brings out a Mars bar and a packet of fags. "For the journey," she says simply as she presses them into Trixie’s hand. 

Trixie's throat is thick. She opens her arms out to Katya hopefully and is relieved when she steps into them. She squeezes Katya's little body as hard tightly. Trixie bends so she can squash her face into Katya's collar, shamelessly breathes in as deep as she can.

She pulls back, eyes wet. Katya smiles encouragingly but otherwise looks unaffected by their parting.

"Goodbye, then," Trixie says. She adds the fags and the chocolate bar to her handbag. 

"It's been nice having you stop with us," Katya winks.

Trixie wishes she could kiss her goodbye, but she can’t. Instead, she gives Katya a firm clap on her leather clad shoulder and forces herself to walk around the corner to where she knows the bus will be waiting.

As soon as she rounds the corner, she spots the group waiting near the bus. Mabli stands a little way from the rest of the group, smoking and kicking her shoe restlessly into the side of the pavement.

"Trixie!" Mabli shouts, "Where the fuck did you go last night? I thought you were dead."

Mabli throws her lit cigarette carelessly into the road, storming towards Trixie. She swings Trixie's overnight bag off her shoulder and shoves it roughly into Trixie's stomach. Trixie almost doubles over with the force of it. She scrambles to grab the bag and keep her footing.

"I'm sorry! Listen - listen to me -" shouts Trixie, "I was speaking to Katya from LGSM for a minute. Just one minute, then I came back and you'd all left.

"That's bollocks, Trixie! We waited for you for twenty minutes. We almost called the police. You're my big sister, you're supposed to look after me!" Mabli is still shouting, her face contorted in rage.

Trixie deflates, her shoulders slump, "I'm sorry Mabli. I'm sorry. Please don't tell Mam."

"Get on the bus and don't fucking speak to me until we get home," spits Mabli in response.

Trixie climbs up into the bus, sitting on the seat directly behind the driver. 

As usual, most of the others make a run for the seats at the back of the bus. 

A couple of Lloyd’s friends pause in their scramble to get their chosen seats.

“Trix, are you alright? Where did you go?”

“I’m just hungover. I ended up at some house party in Camden,” she says dully.

“Ooh! A house party in Camden. She thinks she’s fancy,” the lads tease. One of them reaches out to ruffle her hair and she slaps his hand away.

“Leave me alone a minute,” she pleads, “I just need a nap.”

“Aww,” one of the lads coos, “The women we stayed with gave me a sandwich for the journey. It’s got something foreign in it. She said it was crushed up chickpeas or something like that. Do you want it?”

Trixie shakes her head. She drags her jumper out of her overnight bag and winds it around her face. She ties the two arms into a bow across her eyes.

The boys give up and leave her to her melancholy. She fully indulges herself in it, crying steadily into the soft pink fabric until the bus is well out of the city. She lets herself sniffle until the fabric in front of her face is slimy with snot and beginning to suffocate her. She rests her head on the window and thinks of how she misused Lloyd’s trust, how she left Mabli all on her own in a strange city. She thinks of the bricked-up windows of houses in the village and of the corrupt policemen and her own uncertain future and how unfair it all is. She lets herself spiral into misery until she finally falls into a fitful half-sleep. 

The bus driver ploughs on and doesn’t stop. But even without a break, the sky is still darkening by the time they near Wales. The bus speeds across the toll bridge over the River Severn and Trixie knows that as soon as they cross the bridge, she'll be back in the country of her birth. She roots around in her overnight bag to find her make-up and starts putting her old face back on.

When they arrive back in Onllwyn, Mabli prods the seatbelt fastening violently and is off the bus before Trixie can even pull her overnight bag from underneath the seat in front. There’s a small welcome party in the car park, but Mabli just stalks across the gravel and disappears around the corner. 

“Is Mabs alright, Trixie love?” One of the old ladies from the village asks, “She had an awful face on just then.”

“She’s fine, Mrs Jones, we’re all just a bit hungover.” 

She chuckles and pats Trixie’s arm with her thin, dry hand, “That’s crackin’, bach. You’ve got to let your hair down now and again.”

Trixie spots Lloyd’s car at the edge of the car park, and for a moment she scans the area to try and work out another way to get home without walking past the car. He beeps the horn. It startles her and before she can even take a deep breath, Lloyd is jogging across the car park towards her. 

“Trix! I’m so glad to see you! Let me take –“ He reaches out to take the strap of her overnight bag.

“No, Lloyd, I can fucking carry it – “ she grumbles, twisting her shoulder away from him. 

“Let me put it in the back of the car, babes. It’s heavy.”

She grunts and lets the bag slide off her shoulder and land at her feet with a thump.

“Now what did you do that for? You just like being a dickhead, don’t you?” Lloyd chides, bending over to pick it up for himself. 

He pops open the passenger seat for her, and she has a perverse moment of wanting to sit in the back seat, just so she can open her own door. 

“I thought you said you had no petrol,” Trixie says accusingly.

“I didn’t. But I got some as a treat, so I could drive you somewhere and you could tell me all about the big trip!”

Lloyd grins goofily and drags Trixie in for a kiss by the back of the neck. His lips are warm and familiar, and her stomach churns. She puckers her lips as much as possible to establish a bit of space between their faces. 

He pulls away and asks, “Was it good?”

“Brilliant,” she admits. Her voice sounds hoarse and worn out, “Loads of people came, we raised thousands.”

He pumps his fist, “Yes! Well done Trixabelle!”

She looks down and rummages in her bag for a fag for them both. Lloyd takes one as he starts the car, swings out of the car park and off towards their usual spot. 

“Did you see any men dressed as women?”

“Yeah, a few. They looked nice.”

“Did you see the Houses of Parliament?”

“Only a tiny glimpse from the bus. We didn’t really see much, Lloyd, to be honest.”

“Did you see where The Beatles did the Abbey Road album cover thing?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Did you ride on the Tube?”

“No, I just got off the coach, walked to the B&B, walked to the Electric Ballroom and then walked back to the B&B.”

“Did Margaret Thatcher come?”

“No, she didn’t show her face. Funnily enough.” 

Lloyd laughs at her dry delivery, and at the traffic lights he puts his hand over her knee. He grinds his palm down over it. 

Trixie rests her head against the cool window of the car while he drives them to the little car park where they go to talk and fuck. 

They park up, and Lloyd pushes the seat of his chair back in the car. 

“I missed you, baby,” His eyes are shy but his voice is low, and Trixie can tell he’s trying to be sexy. 

“I can’t do this no more, Lloyd. I cheated on you this weekend.”

Lloyd is silent. He blinks.

“Tell me you’re joking, Trixie.”

“I’m not joking,” 

“Was it with one of the boys? Or some fucking Cockney prick?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was –“

“Fuck!” Lloyd interrupts, “It was with a fucking lesbian, wasn’t it?” 

She nods, twisting the strap of her bag around her wrists. 

He squints at her, “No you didn’t, you can’t have. You’re having me on. What did you do? Kiss her?”

“We did a bit more than kiss, Lloyd. I’m sorry. And now everything has changed. It’s like that woman’s box– that fucking, you know, the box. What’s she called? You know the one. You can’t put it back once it’s out.”

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Fuck! Bollocks! Fuck!” He slams his fists into the steering wheel of the car, and the whole vehicle rocks.

Trixie squeezes the door handle as quietly as she can, until the door pops open. She slides her leg out of the car, gets ready to run. She’s glad she hadn’t fastened her seat belt yet. Her father has never laid a hand on her mother and Lloyd is soft as shit, but her grandmother always warned her that men can turn on a sixpence. She advised Trixie to sleep with knitting needles for her first year of marriage. 

“Come back inside the car, Trixie. I won’t hurt you, fuck. You must know that.”

He moves his hand from the steering wheel to her leg again, and this time she’s grateful for the heavy comfort of it. 

She knows that at this point she could tell him that it is all a lie, that she just wanted to see his face. She could cuff the side of his head and call him a _silly, gullible boy_. She could climb over his lap, grab his cock through his jeans and make him forget all about it. 

“Lloydy, what are you going to do if we win the strike?”

“I’d go back to the pit, what else would I do?”

“And what if we don’t win the strike? And the pit shuts down? What would you do?”

He starts to raise his voice again, “How am I supposed to know that? Why are you asking me that now? For fucks sake, we were talking about you - ”

“But you must have learnt so much, you’ve done so well,” Trixie won’t let up, “With everything you’ve been doing to save the pits, meeting all the people you’ve met. You must be thinking about doing something different, having a different life. Sian James wants to go to uni and get into politics.”

“I don’t want to do all that,” Lloyd’s voice is strained, “I don’t want a different life. I want a life with _you_. A normal life. Kids, the rugby, inviting Mam and Dad ‘round for Sunday dinner. Everything we want is here.”

Lloyd’s voice cracks, and he sinks his head into his hands. Trixie can’t resist rubbing his hand over his shoulders as they start to tremble. He takes a shaky breath and sits up, fixing Trixie with a fiery look. 

“You won’t get that if you run off with a woman. No kids. No big white wedding. Who’s going to look after you, Trix? Look, you must have got swept up in all that gays and lesbians stuff. It must have been exciting. You must have loved going up London and seeing your pop stars, getting all dolled up. You got carried away. That’s okay. But it’s time for us to grow up now.”

“I didn’t get swept up, Lloyd. I fucked her. More than once. I wanted to.”

Lloyd flinches, his eyes squeezed so tight that Trixie can barely see them. 

She swallows thickly, “I’m not telling you because I want to hurt you, I just want you to understand.”

“Oh,” he says, looking out of the window at the trees, “Was it the one you were speaking to at the Welfare, the first night? The scrawny one with the donkey teeth?”

“Yeah.”

Lloyd scrubs his hand over his face, “She wouldn’t have been my choice. You know, of the lesbians.”

Trixie snorts, and Lloyd almost laughs. He manages it for a second until the laugh turns into a sob. He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. 

“So, what now?” Lloyd asks, “Are you going to shave off your hair and move to London? Become a real dyke?”

“I think I might start with having a trim and moving to Cardiff,” Trixie says, looking slyly up from beneath her lashes.

Lloyd’s whiskered lip twitches like he might manage another half-laugh.

He says, “Are you sure this is what you want? I’ve loved you for _years_ ,” and then his voice cracks again. His chin trembles like he’s fighting off another sob. 

And Trixie wants to cry too, but she won’t let herself. She wants to work herself up into a state, until she’s hiccupping as she’s crying, so someone will hold her and tell her that it will be alright. But this is a mess of her own doing, and there’s nothing she can do but push on with it. 

“I love you too,” Trixie says, “I’m going to need to do a lot of grieving before I can even think about a new relationship with anyone.” 

Lloyd’s eyes are wide and red rimmed. His face looks so young and so pretty. 

“Trixie, can’t you at least _try_?”

Trixie rubs her hand over his knee, “I’ve been trying, love. I’ve been trying for years, before I even knew that I was trying.”

Lloyd shuts his eyes and Trixie knows that he’s trying not to argue with her, trying not to debase himself in bargaining. She appreciates it. 

Eventually, he says, “And what does that woman want? Is she in love with you?”

“No. She’s not. Katya and I aren’t together. It was only one night, Lloyd.”

“Then why are you doing this? If you’re not leaving me for her?”

“I have to do it. For me. I’m sorry,” she adds uselessly. 

They sit frozen, watching the rain fall in sheets against the windscreen. 

Eventually Trixie breaks the silence, “Can you drive me home now please?”

Lloyd twists the key in the ignition and the windscreen wipers shudder into life. The car is sluggish and Lloyd grunts as he steps down on the accelerator, heaving the car back on the road. They agree that they will tell their parents they have separated, but they won’t tell them why until after the strike is finished. Lloyd assures Trixie that he is in no rush to let the lads know that Trixie has left him after shagging a woman.  
As he pulls up outside her parents’ house, Trixie leans in for one last kiss on the mouth. It’s muscle memory more than anything else. His lips are soft and full against hers, but she pulls away when he tries to deepen the kiss.

Lloyd starts sobbing as soon as she shuts the car door. She pretends she doesn’t hear it and keeps her back straight as she walks to her house.

Trixie hopes that her parents are out when she pushes the door open as quietly as she can.

Her mam shouts, “Trixie! Thank _fuck_ you’re home. Mabli came tromping in here with a face like thunder. No _’London was amazing mam, thanks for lending me your handbag.’_ No _’How was your weekend, Mum’_. She just had a tea and a Welsh cake and fucked back off to Graham’s house. Can you please offer us some _cheerful_ fucking news.”

“I ended things with Lloyd,” she says flatly.

“No,” Her mother sounds winded, “You haven’t. You love that boy.”

Her own voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away, “I love him. He’s my best friend. I don’t want to marry him.”

Trixie tries to make her way around her mother to get safely up the stairs, but her mother steps sideways to block her path.

She laughs shortly, “Trixie, you know how many women in this village would want a husband that could be their best friend? Do you know how many of them have a husband that doesn’t speak to them, beyond asking when dinner will be ready?”

“Mam, just let me go to bed. It’s my decision.” 

“Do you know where your Grandfather was when I was born? Down the _Prince’s Arms_. Do you know what your own father said when I told him I wanted to study to be a taxi driver? ‘Surely they wouldn’t let a woman be a taxi driver!’”

Trixie covers her face with her hands, “I want to go to bed.”

“Lloyd might not be the most modern man, but he’s leagues ahead of most of them around here,” Her mum says gently. 

Trixie shrugs.

“Come on, Trix. You’re a proper Valleys Girl, mun. You don’t want some poser like George Michael, with floppy hair and a waxed chest.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Trixie nods shallowly, and this time her mum lets her pass her to go up the stairs. 

***

Alone in her room, Trixie slides the business cards that Katya gave her out of the pocket of her handbag. She copies their numbers down in the back of her address book just in case she loses them. She lies back and looks up at the collage of magazine pictures that she’s tacked up on the wall beside her bed. At the centre of her creation is a large cut-out-and-keep poster of Madonna that came with Smash Hits magazine. She peels back one corner and sticks the two business cards to the wall behind it, and then covers them up with the poster.

Next, she places the unopened packet of fags and chocolate bar in the drawer in her bedside cabinet. She tucks the three safety pins she borrowed off Katya next to them. She should feel sad, and she does, but underneath it a small flame of excitement is kindling in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long!! 
> 
> Content warning: Some references to male violence/entitlement. Pejorative attitudes towards mental health. 
> 
> Language: The dole is a British slang term for welfare/unemployment benefits.

**December 1984 - March 1985**

The three weeks between Trixie’s trip to London and Christmas Day are dominated by hearing _Do They Know It’s Christmas_ everywhere she goes. It’s on the radio’s ‘A-list’ and played at least eight times a day, and Trixie hasn’t been able to have a quick drink in the Welfare Hall without someone choosing it to play on the juke box. She likes watching the video, trying to identify every pop-star that appears briefly.  


Mrs Davies changes the donations box from a collection to help the miners to raising money for Band Aid, and Trixie is secretly glad of the change. The shop has few customers left, and the few they do have left have been getting increasingly exasperated by the strike. They have started to make comments like, “Surely it’s getting a bit self-indulgent now?”

Every time they do, Trixie bites the inside of her cheek and tells herself that they probably don’t even know how _fucking ignorant_ they are.

Trixie covers the _Coal Not Dole_ stickers on the box with pictures of the famine in Ethiopia and customers start dropping a lot more change into it. The pictures have the same effect on Trixie. The babies break her heart every time she looks at them. When she gets her weekly pay packet she slips a fiver out of it and folds it in to the box before she can let herself think about how it could feed her family for most of the rest of the week. 

Her parents feel differently. Whenever those drums start, her mam rolls her eyes and mutters, “There won’t be food in the fucking Valleys this Christmastime, either.”

Katya sits like an itch in her skin. She used to day dream about pool parties with celebrities, but now she can't day dream without imagining hot, sweaty nightclubs and Katya's slender jaw bone. 

Trixie gets herself off more than she ever has before. She reimagines experiences she's had, like fucking Katya in a lake halfway up the mountain like her and Lloyd had done one summer. She wants Katya sat on a rock with her leather jacket on and nothing underneath, looking down at the green valley and the winding river as Trixie eats her out. She lets her mind wander, come up with new scenarios. She imagines her and Katya in a punk band, kissing messily on stage for the fans and then again behind the curtain. 

The most taboo thing she can imagine is Katya as a Woman Police Constable in a tight white shirt, black tie and thick woollen jumper. She arrests a furiously resistant Trixie on the picket line and wrangles her into the van with her arms cuffed behind her back. At the station, Katya gives her a strip search and finds that she can't keep her hands off Trixie's body. She fucks Trixie on the thin mattress in the holding cell, hands still cuffed and bundled awkwardly into her lower back. Trixie comes silently, eyes clenched shut and thighs trembling and her parents in the room next door.

She thinks about trying to get in touch with Katya but can't imagine what she'd say. Everything sounds too plaintive, too exposing.

Christmas itself is grey, bleak and miserable. The family next door had their gas cut off a week ago, so they go halves on the turkey with the Mattels. Trixie’s mum cooks it and then sends Trixie round with the slightly bigger half swaddled in foil. 

Trixie unwraps her presents slowly, trying to express as much enthusiasm as she can. She receives the Smash Hits Year book 1985, three black ballpoint pens and a couple of sachets of Cadbury’s hot chocolate. The fact is, she’s getting a lot more presents than most people in the village, even the children. Most families had donated what they could find, old books and grown-out-of jumpers, to be redistributed to children from poorer families. 

The women at the Welfare Hall had bought an enormous box of Quality Street chocolates and split them up so that there was enough for a tiny parcel for every family. The Mattels unwrap one chocolate each and settle down to watch the Queen’s Speech.

The television screen fills with the Queen, sat in her lavish sitting room in a teal gown. She wears a gleaming strand of pearls and a magnificent diamond brooch. Trixie’s dad starts to grind his teeth from the moment that the camera pans over the moat of the castle, but he decisively turns over the channel when she calmly intones, “I feel that in the world today there is too much concentration on the gloomy side of life, so that we tend to underestimate our blessings.” 

Two days after Christmas, Trixie gets the bus to the shop for her shift. A gnawing feeling starts in the pit of her stomach when she sees there is no stock for the new season. She’d fallen in love with a Yves Saint Laurent fashion spread in her last magazine, bought in the autumn. It had featured luxurious emerald silk and heavy gold belts. She’d cut out the pictures for the collage over her bed and held out hope that the style may have been watered down and re-configured into a reasonably priced shoe. But the room at the back of the shop hasn’t been re-stocked. Half the shelves lie empty.

At the end of her shift Mrs Davis calls her to the back room and asks her to sit down on the little step-ladder she uses to get to the top shelves when Trixie isn’t around.

“Trixie, love. I’ve got something to say to you, and I’m not sure how to go about it. Mr Davis and I have been struggling with the business lately. We’ve kept it going thirty years, but since the start of the strike we’ve been putting our own money in it to keep it going…”

Trixie drops her face down so all she can see are her own knees. She knows where this is going.

“Neither of us are spring chickens anymore,” Mrs Davis says, “Mr Davis and I have decided that we’re going to shut up the shop. Then we can spend more time home together. You know us, we’ll be on the wine by midday every day,” She tries to laugh but it sounds hollow.

Trixie nods. She can’t think what to say. Tears well up in her eyes. She tries to blink them back, but they spill over. Before she knows it, her shoulders are shaking with sobs. Her thoughts are tumbling, spinning out of control. Her parents are relying on Trixie’s little job. Her stomach burns with shame. How can she go home and tell them that she doesn’t even have that now? She doesn’t even know if she’s eligible for any benefits. They’ve been trying to stop the wives of miners from claiming them. What about daughters? What can she do? She’s a spinster, a dyke, a no-hoper with no job in a country, a world, that just keeps getting worse and worse. 

Her shoulders shake more and more violently. She can’t breathe through her nose properly, it’s so clogged and swollen. There’s a stream of salty snot running down from her nose and over her lips. Her breath comes faster and faster until black speckles cloud her view. 

Mrs Davis starts rubbing over her back in big soothing circles.

She coos, “I’m sorry, Trixie. I’m sorry. You’re a lovely girl. You’ll find something else.” 

Trixie tries to sniff as hard as she can to clear her nose. It just makes a disgusting honking noise. 

“I’ve got a couple of things for you,” Mrs Davis says softly.

Mrs Davis reaches under the table and pulls out a shoebox. Trixie opens it up, and inside there are a pair of smart black leather court shoes nestled in a bed of pink crepe paper.

“I thought they would do you for your next interview.”

Trixie nods tearfully. Underneath there are two envelopes. Trixie opens them one by one. One contains her pay for the rest of January, and one contains a reference. Mrs Davis has typed it out and then signed underneath in her dramatic, copperplate writing. 

“I’ll drive you home, lovely.”

It’s a half an hour drive back up the Valley to Trixie’s house, and she cries all the way. The seat belt cuts into her neck. Mrs Davis listens to a play on Radio 4. They’ve tuned in half way through and the actors are squabbling. All their voices sound the same and it’s giving Trixie a pounding headache.

When they pull up outside Trixie’s house she is sobbing too hard to click open her seatbelt. Mrs Davis does it for her and leaves Trixie in the car while she knocks on the door. Kasha talks to her parents in the doorway for a few minutes before her mam comes out to the car to collect her, guides her into the house with an arm around her shoulder. 

January trickles past while Trixie languishes on the sofa, staring out of the window on to the street. The colour palette outside the window is a selection of cold, insipid blues and muddy whites, and it becomes her internal palette too. Her head feels as blank and flat as the frosted sky. She learns the TV schedule off by heart. Sometimes she starts off watching one programme then retreats inside her head and by the time she tunes back in, the programme has turned into something else. 

She wastes at least one afternoon assiduously snipping off her split ends with her nail clippers. She slouches down in the sofa and watches _Blockbusters_. Her attention often wanes by the time the presenter gets to the end of reading out the questions off his glittery cards. She spends more time ranking the hairstyles and general attractiveness of the female contestants than answering the questions.

Sometimes her dad sits next to her in silence, and sometimes he doesn’t sit next to her at all.

Trixie gave all of her pay-off money from Mrs Davis to her parents, the only money they’ll get until Trixie can motivate herself enough to sort out whether she can get benefits or not. But she’s got a small jar of coins under her desk that she’s been squirrelling away for something special.

She longs to hear the voice of someone different, someone outside the village. She wants to create space in the fuzz of her head for something else. 

On a quiet Sunday when the streets are dead and dirty, slushy snow melting in the gutters, Trixie sorts herself out a small bag of 10p and 20p coins and heads to the phone box at the corner of the street. 

It takes her a while to work up the courage to lift the receiver. The dial tone sounds too loud, she’s sure it must be ringing like an alarm all over the village. Through the windows of the phone box she can see the closed shutters of the corner shop. She can see up to the mountains surrounded by bruised grey clouds. 

She drops a couple of coins into the slot and takes out her address book. She flicks to the back, where she’s written the number for the person she wants to speak to in under ‘Z’. Sweat rolls down the small of her back. 

It starts to ring. It rings for so long that Trixie almost gives up.

“Hello!” says a light, chirpy voice, “Camden women’s house, this is Farrah!”

“Hi, er, I’m Trixie. From Wales. Can I talk to Katya please? Brummie Katya?”

“Of course! Is it about that LGSM thing? I’ll go get her now – “

There’s a thunk as the phone gets put down and then Trixie can hear the hubbub of the house, snatches of conversation and what sounds like people running up the stairs.

As she waits she watches the small screen that displays how much money she has left. It starts ticking down, and Trixie fingers the coins she has left in her pockets. She weighs up now much she’s willing to spend on a call with Katya.

“Katya speaking, who is it?” She sounds terse and it makes Trixie smile.

“It’s Trixie –“

Katya’s tone changes, “Trixie! Hello! How are you? How’s the strike going? We went collecting in Heaven last night. That big club, you know? And we collected quite a bit. Tonight we’re going to take the buckets to Soho and we were thinking – “

“Fucking shut up alright,” Trixie shouts into the receiver, “I just can’t bear talking about it.”

Trixie has been pushed into brazen action by Katya’s accent. It somehow enlivens her memories, reassures Trixie that it wasn’t a weird dream after all. 

Trixie braces herself and starts speaking, not letting herself take any more breaths, “I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to talk about how much I want to eat you out again. I want you to sit over me and I want to get you all over my face and my cheeks. Fucking hell, in my eyelashes. I want to make you open up for me again and I want to be better at it. I want to be able to draw your fucking fanny just from my memory. I want to split you open. I want to tie your hands and make you watch me get off. I want you to play with my big tits. I want to try that _tribbing_ thing I’ve heard about. _Hand-balling_. Jesus.”

The counter is steadily ticking down. 

Trixie can hear Katya breathing heavily down the phone, “Other people are around me Trixie. But do go on.”

Trixie grins, cups her hand around the receiver so no-one can see her mouth as they pass and goes back to whispering urgently. 

“I want to flirt with you in a whole room of other dykes, and I want you to still come home with me. I want you to guide my fingers inside you because you can’t wait for me.”

The well of Trixie’s conscious mind is running dry. She’s barely aware of what she’s saying, just letting the words burn out of her. She’s down to her last 20p on the call. 

“I want to fuck you on your stomach and I want to do things that I don’t even know about yet but I’m going to learn them and practice them and you’re going to fucking love it. I want to make you beg. And I want you to open me up, too. You’re going to make me cry and I want that. I want to cry over you, Katya.”

She looks at the screen and it reads 5p. Then the phone clicks, and the line cuts out. Trixie is suddenly aware of the sounds of the street in a way that she wasn’t before. She feels winded. Her hot breath has fogged up the little squares of glass. 

Trixie fumbles for another coin and rams it in the slot, punching out the numbers with shaking fingers. 

Katya answers on the first ring, “Feeling better? Got it out of your system? I need a bucket of cold water now.”

Her broad, flat accent and dry delivery makes Trixie splutter with laughter, “Yes. Fuck. I’m sorry. Everything’s so shit here, and I keep thinking of that night and – “

Katya interrupts her, “I hear you. But you’re really strong Trixie. You’re just getting on with it. And I’ll be here -”

The line goes dead again, and the screen shows £00.00p. Trixie thinks about feeding it some more coins. But she knows Katya will just ask her about Lloyd and her parents and that’s the last thing she wants. 

Trixie practically flies back to her house. She fumbles with her keys and falls through the door, shouting a general greeting to work out who is home. No one answers, and Trixie sinks back against the wall of the hallway. She pops the button on her jeans and plunges her fingers underneath them. She’s wet and boiling hot. Her whole body vibrates. It’s bonkers, ridiculous, but she feels so alive for the first time in weeks and weeks.

She gets herself off standing in the hall and stumbles up the stairs to her room to lie on her bed and watch the sky darken.

Later that evening, Trixie overhears a conversation between her parents as they return from the Miner’s Welfare. She hears her mam say, “Emyr, you need to do something about Trixie.”  
Her father sounds fed up, “What can I do? She’s fine. Just quiet.”

“Fine? _Fine_ , by Christ. Fine! She’s not fine – “

Her father hisses, “You need to calm down, love.”

Her mam whisper-shouts back, “I can’t just _calm down_ Emyr. We’ve got one daughter shacked up with a copper almost twice her age, and one that’s on the verge of the mad house.”

“She’s not ‘on the verge of the mad house’, she just needs a bit of time.” 

Trixie pulls the blankets over her head and goes back to sleep.

The next morning, her father takes her for her first driving lesson. She’s not sure where he got the money for the petrol, but she makes sure she listens carefully as he shows her how to adjust the wing-mirrors.  


Trixie’s dad has had the same car for most of her childhood. The gear stick is stiff, the ceiling stained yellow with cigarette smoke and the driver’s seat has been blackened by years of coal dust on his overalls. 

Trixie’s heart still speeds up with exhilaration as she guides the car down the steep hills of the village. 

"Your mam is driving herself mental trying to work out why you ended things with Lloyd," Her father says without any preamble. 

Trixie shrugs, "There's not much to say. She thinks he's the best I'm capable of getting," Her voice sounds bitter. She’s fed up of discussing it with her mother. 

Her father says bluntly, "I'm glad you did "

Trixie can't quite believe it, "Really?" 

"Do you think I always wanted to be a miner?" He says. 

"Really? What do you wish you had done instead?" She asks. 

"Oh, duw duw, there's a question," her dad sighs, scratches a bit at his ear.

"I would have loved to have started my own record shop," he says finally.

Trixie can imagine it. Her father, standing less stooped than he does after years underground, in his own shop. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans and putting colourful records into brown paper bags. Smiling at the customers. 

"Why didn't you?" 

"I grew up knowing there was no point thinking of anything else. I'm a miner because my dad was a miner. If something good comes out of all this shit, it's that my daughters won't be miner's wives, and your kids might do something different too."

Trixie sighs, "I hope so. I want to move away."

"Good. Don't waste your life like I've wasted mine," He replies.

She argues, "But you've always said you enjoyed working in the -" 

Her father says harshly, "I've fucked up my back, my lungs. I've spent more than half of my life underground. And for what? I've sweated to keep the lights on in this country, and now people are writing in to these fucking rags - " He violently pokes the rolled-up newspaper on the dashboard, "To call us lazy traitors. A fucking waste of time."

"Dad -" Trixie interrupts. She glances out at the road. She’s still not quite sure what to do with the indicators, but she’s trying. 

Her father stares out of the window on the passenger side, "People get nostalgic. But maybe some things are meant to die."

"I think people are just afraid of -" 

"It's all a waste of time. It doesn't matter. You and I could drive into that wall and it wouldn't make a difference to the world," He sounds resigned. 

Trixie looks sideways at her father's profile. His eyes are vague, his cheeks sunken and grey.

"I don't think that's true, Dad," she says hesitantly. 

"That's because you're still young. You're down one round to life, but you've still got time to get a few good punches in. You'll see, it's all a waste of fucking time," he says. 

Trixie wishes she was small again. She wants to sit in the back seat with his coat over her knees, watching raindrops racing across the window. Anything to ease the discomfort of seeing him as an old man, ground down by life.

She guides the car gently around the roundabout, checking her mirrors and making sure to indicate at the appropriate time. Her eyes flicker over to her father every few seconds, but he doesn't move an inch. A muscle flutters in his jaw.

She drives all the way home. Before she gets out of the car he claps her on the knee and says, "Nice driving, bach. You'll be fine. You don't need me anymore."

"I do, dad," Trixie insists. But he's out of the car before the words have properly left her lips.

When her dad thinks she’s ready, he pays for her to take her driving test. Trixie pretends that she doesn’t notice the black leather box where he keeps the cufflinks he saves _for best_ disappear from his bedroom. She feels the pressure of it as she takes the test. She literally cannot afford a second chance.

But she passes first time, and she soon finds herself driving the Onllwyn Miner's Welfare van up and down the Valley on various errands; including driving people to the doctor, picking up large donations and taking miners to the picket line. 

One frosty February morning Trixie finds herself in the van with Rhiannon, her son balanced on her lap in the passenger seat.

They have been out driving to collect an oven that has been donated by a bankrupt restaurant to the Welfare Hall, so that they can offer more hot meals to families that need them. Rhiannon and Trixie had found a length of old rope and lashed it around the cooker, tying it securely to the side of the van.

The van is so cold that Trixie has to wrap her scarf around her fingers before she can bear to touch the steering wheel, and Rhiannon throws a mug of hot water over the windscreen to get rid of the ice. 

The van creaks up the hill, icy branches scraping against its roof. Trixie has to use the whole strength of her shoulder to push down on the gear stick.

“Is it true that you pulled a girl when you went to London before Christmas?”

Trixie’s hands jump on the wheel.

“Who told you that?”

Rhiannon’s forehead scrunches as she tries to recall the details. “One of the boys was just guessing. Owain said you disappeared off with one of the London lot and Mabli was fuming. Apparently, she was running up and down the street shouting for you. So, they all just assumed that you must have shagged a dyke.”

Trixie tries to sound as casual as she can, “Owain was late. He missed me leaving. It was just one of the girls that came down here the time we was dancing. Do you remember? She invited me to a party back at hers. I would have invited Mabs but she can be a bit weird with the gays. Prejudiced, like.”

Rhiannon nods sagely and pulls the baby’s woollen hat down over his reddened ears.  
“Did the boys speak to Lloyd about it?” Trixie asks, relieved that her voice still sounds fairly steady. 

“He won’t speak to no-one. He’s barely been out the house. But one of the boys said he’s copped off with Carly Ow-. Shit. Sorry Trix.”

Trixie’s throat immediately closes up. She tries to swallow to clear it, but it feels like there’s a ball lodged in there. She feels light-headed, like she’s outside of her body looking down at it. She doesn’t have a right to feel this way, she reminds herself. 

“Sorry,” repeats Rhiannon, “I don’t think it happened more than once.”

Trixie isn’t sure if it makes it better or worse. She jerks the steering wheel to the side, making the wheels of the van squeak. The cooker rattles on the floor of the van behind them. 

“I’ve kissed a woman, you know,” says Rhiannon slyly.

“Have you?” Trixie can’t keep the note of surprise out of her voice. 

“Yeah,” Rhiannon says nonchalantly. “With just random girls. I used to do it all the time when we used to go out clubbing in Swansea. Obviously before I had the baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The boys always went wild for it.”

“I’ll bet,” says Trixie, “what was it like?”

“Oh! Uhhh...Soft. Delicate. Girls smell nice. They don't try and grab you all at once,” Rhiannon says thoughtfully. 

Trixie remembers her desperation to get Katya’s firm body close to hers. She remembers scrabbling at the hem of her leather jacket, and the taste of beer and fags in her mouth. She remembers her sharp little teeth and the way she licked Trixie’s come off the fine hairs of her top lip. 

Rhiannon turns to face Trixie and leans in, as if to tell her a secret, “One time we kissed in the toilets as well. We’d already done it on the dance floor but then we wanted another go in private.”

Rhiannon’s voice is low and urgent, and her cheeks get pinker and pinker. Then she sits back, looking at Trixie almost challengingly. The baby is still quiet on her lap. 

Trixie almost wants to admit to it. She almost wants to tell Rhiannon that not only has she kissed a woman, she’s made love to one too.

Trixie has never seen Rhiannon as a sexy before. But then she does, like a camera coming into focus.

Rhiannon is dark haired and dark eyed, like all of the Mattels. But her hair is lighter, straighter than Trixie’s natural hair. In the light it has a reddish glow. She has freckles over a narrow nose and pale, rather small, lips. 

In the last few weeks Trixie has come to see herself as having a ’thing for blondes,’ she’s practiced repeating it to herself in the bath. She likes Madonna and Katya and Annie Lennox and that woman on the mid-day news bulletin. There's something about Diana's mischievous eyes and elfin chin that reminds her of Katya. But despite that, Trixie finds herself thinking of drawing Rhiannon’s mouth to her own over the gearstick. 

If the baby wasn’t there, Trixie could lead Rhiannon’s head down between her legs. If Trixie pulled up her skirt and shuffled about a bit, Rhiannon’s head could just about fit sideways between Trixie’s thick thighs like Lloyd’s used to do. 

Perhaps afterwards she could press Rhiannon into the seat. Rhiannon is bigger, fatter, than Trixie and she wonders what it would be like to feel their stomachs rub against one another. She thinks about folding Rhiannon’s knees backwards so her thighs squash into her stomach. She thinks about what it would be like to pin Rhiannon’s hands to the headrest. 

Rhiannon’s gaze is flitting between Trixie’s lips and her eyes, and her head is tilting towards Trixie.

The baby cries, and Rhiannon’s hands fly under his little arm pits. She dandles him on her knee and starts singing a little rhyme in Welsh. Something about calling a brown cow back to the barn. Trixie joins in, and every verse they change the name of the cow. The baby giggles and settles back on his mother’s lap, and the tension between them breaks . 

Trixie and Rhiannon drive the oven to the hall. They heave it out of the back of the van and into the kitchen together, giving each other quick signals to bend their knees and pivot as they carry it down the driveway. They drag it over the threshold and into the kitchen, leave it for someone else to wire in. 

Later, Trixie thinks about the moment in the van as she gets herself off before sleeping. She fantasises about Rhiannon fleeing to Trixie's house, crying with the strains of motherhood. Trixie thinks about rubbing the tried arches of her feet, kissing her chapped, gum-worn nipples. Trixie kneels before her on the sofa and sucks sweetly at Rhiannon's clit until she's weeping freely. 

She imagines them as school girls again. As they might have been, if things had been different. Blue netball skirts rucked up around their waists as they rut against each other in the grass on the far side of the school fields.

***

**3rd March 1985**

Trixie's dad is watching Dad's Army. Trixie has never quite understood the appeal of watching the boorish old men make mistake after mistake, but Trixie's dad chuckles along with every episode, no matter how many times they're repeated.

One of the characters is bumbling around in an old fashioned diver’s suit when white text appears on the screen. It reads, "National Union of Mineworkers vote to return to work on Tuesday. More at 3.30," before slowly fading away.

"Well, fucking hell," says Trixie's dad, "I'm going down the Miner's Welfare to watch the news with the boys."

He pulls on his coat and is out the door Before Trixie or her mam can join him.

Trixie puts the kettle on and they wait in tense silence for the episode to finish. They don't laugh once at the climax of the episode; they just edge forward on the sofa with their hands on their knees.

Eventually, the familiar jingle of the news programme starts. Trixie's mam hushes her even though she's not talking. The news reader sits behind his desk with perfectly coiffed silver hair and a light powder blue suit. Trixie can't imagine him getting dirty; not dirty like her dad has been every day of his working life.

He explains the situation, spelling out acronyms and using people's full names and job titles. Trixie feels impatient, wants to hurry him along to the important bits. Then she realises that he's explaining the situation to an entirely different audience, to the people at home who haven't talked about Arthur Scargill so much that he feels like a member of the family. 

It was a narrow vote in favour of the miners returning to work, and they have capitulated without achieving any of their aims. They haven't even managed to secure an amnesty for the miners that have been sacked for _disruptive behaviour_ on the picket line, never mind that most of them were probably responding to police antagonism. 

The camera changes to a view of Arthur Scargill, talking on behalf of the National Union of Mineworkers. He sits at a big table, long furry microphones being shoved in front of his face. His tone is conciliatory, more measured than Trixie was expecting.

After he has given his statement, the screen moves to the crowds outside the building. Other Executive Members of the NUM push through crowds of angry miners, barely held back by lines of police men. Trixie smirks as she watches their tall black helmets bob up and down as they try and keep control. 

The footage flicks to a young man sat in the pub, blue eyes magnified by tearful eyes. 

He has a strong Northern accent and although Trixie can barely understand it, she gets the gist. He looks plaintively at the camera, "Yeah, I do feel let down. I do feel sold down the river. We've achieved nothing."

A solitary tear escapes his waterline and rolls down his ruddy cheek. He swipes it away with the back of his hand and takes a long swallow of his pint.

Then back to the newsreader. Trixie's mum stares at the screen, mouth slightly agape.

"What do you think, mam?"

"I don't know what to think."

The newsreader moves on to other stories around the country, before they go live to wherever Margaret Thatcher is for her reaction.

Trixie's mum springs from her chair and turns the TV off with a decisive jab, "I'm not listening to that witch speak. If I see all much as one smirk on her face, I'll want to drive to London and smack it off." 

Trixie gives her mam a kiss on the cheek and heads upstairs, her mind whirring. She falls back onto her bed and stares at the ceiling. The end of the strike cannot be a good thing, it just can't be. 

And yet she feels a curious sense of a weight lifted from her stomach. When she breathes she feels her whole rib cage rise and fall. 

Her dad will be earning again. They'll have something for tea that's more exciting than tinned meat stew and potatoes. She imagines the grey slopes of the Valley falling away around her like a cardboard film set. 

***

On the Tuesday they go back to work, Trixie knocks softly on the door of Lloyd’s house. The curtains twitch in the front room, and Trixie sees a flash of an eye before it disappears again behind grey lace. She knocks again, this time a bit louder. She waits, before rapping firmly on the door a third time.

Lloyd’s mother answers the door to Trixie silently, and stares grim-faced at her as she walks past, head bowed. The hallway is so narrow that Trixie is forced to press herself passed Lloyd’s mam. She seems to swell as Trixie attempts to shrink herself into the wall. 

Lloyd’s mam mutters, “He’s in the lounge. I’ll wait for you here.”

She doesn’t move to close the front door, and Trixie understands she’s on limited time.

Lloyd is wearing his smartest jacket. It’s too big now, the material sagging down his shoulders. Although most the men wear orange overalls over their clothes, they seem to have agreed between them to return to work looking dignified.

It takes Trixie a moment to realise that the large wooden dining table has disappeared. 

“Lloyd,” she asks, “Where’s the –“ 

Lloyd points wordlessly to the fireplace. Next to the fireplace there’s a basket of cut up wood, Trixie can just about make out what was probably once a table leg.  


“Oh,” she says. 

She holds out the blue and white Tesco bag at Lloyd, “I brought you some lunch.”

“My mam made me lunch.”

“You’ve never refused a second lunch before.”

Lloyd smiles ruefully. He takes the bag from her and peeks inside. When he sees she’s added a packet of his favourite biscuits, the smile turns warmer.

“Thanks, Trix,” he says fondly.

“What do you think about the strike ending then?” she asks. She was expecting him to be full of excitement about getting to go to work with the boys again. 

"It's useless," says Lloyd, "they'll just close the mine anyway. This year, or next. They'll find some excuse, and buy in Soviet coal in for half the price."

"When did you get so well read?"

Lloyd's mouth twitches up into a smile but he shrugs his shoulders. "Just obvious. Everyone knows."

Lloyd goes back to fumbling with his tie. He keeps winding the material under rather than over, and Trixie can’t watch him make the same mistake again.

“Lloydy, come here. Let me –,” She takes the material out of his fingers and straightens his collar, so she can tie it for him. 

She doesn’t know how, but she forgot that she is so much shorter than him. She feels almost dainty as she leans up on her tip toes to tie the knot. He slips his thumb through the belt loop of her jeans and she ignores it. 

Lloyd’s eyes dart to the door, but his mother has her back turned to them. 

“You must be pleased,” he whispers.

“Why? I’m sorry that the strike has broken. But I’m very proud of you all,” she replies. 

He quickly cuts her off, “No – I mean. You must be pleased you can tell everyone you're a dyke now."

"Lloyd..." she warns.

"Or that you bat both ways, or whatever you're saying now,” He shrugs but his eyes are fierce. 

"It's got nothing to do with that," Trixie says firmly.

Lloyd smirks, "You know what I'm going to do?"

"What?"

Trixie can smell the toothpaste on his breath on her face as their chests brush together. Her hands tremble on his tie. 

There’s a smell of something dark and woody on his neck and, this close, Trixie can see the tiny bristles of black hair already breaking through the pale skin of his neck. She brushes her hands down his shoulders to try and straighten the seams. 

"When I get my first pay check, I'm going to get the bus to Swansea and I'm going to get absolutely _smashed_."

Trixie rolls her eyes. "That will be a good use of your hard-earned income."

His voice turns low and husky, "Yeah, and I'm going to find a bird and I'm going to shag her fucking silly."

"Shag her silly, eh?" Trixie gives him a push on the shoulder.

“Fucking silly,” he smirks. 

"Is that right big boy?"

"Yeah. That’s right," Lloyd looks into Trixie's eyes. His tongue darts out and moistens his lips, before he starts tilting his head to the side, towards Trixie. 

"No. Lloyd," Trixie says, as firmly but gently as she can.

Lloyd seizes her arm and pulls her closer. There's a short scuffle where she tries to tug her arm free. Her shoes scuff on the carpet and he grunts with the effort of keeping his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. He makes a grab at her arse.

"Get off!" she mutters as forcefully as she can without alerting his mother. She tries to stamp on his toes. 

Lloyd's arm falls heavily back to his side.

Trixie rubs the little red patch on her wrist. 

"I've got to go," she says.

Lloyd nods tightly, and fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket. 

Lloyd’s mum is still waiting, arms crossed in the doorway. Trixie nods tightly at her, but she slams the front door forcefully after Trixie as soon as Trixie crosses the threshold. 

By the time she gets home her dad has left to join the other men marching back to work. Trixie’s mum greets her in the doorway. 

Their street is long and narrow, made of identical grey-bricked miner’s houses. Almost every doorway is filled by a woman waiting to clap as the men walk past. As usual in March, it’s a rainy day in south Wales, and the grey roofs of the terrace are transformed into shining black planes.

Trixie hears the rumble of the drums long before the band are in sight. It builds and builds until it bounces off the houses. Trixie claps. She cups her hands to clap as loud as she can manage. Her mam and her neighbours do too. Trixie hopes the sound carries over to the next valley where the next colliery will be doing the same. She hopes it carries up and down the country, from Kent to Nottingham to Yorkshire and then down to wedge a stake in Thatcher’s heart. 

The cornets are fast and joyous, starting each a new song with a flourish. The men playing euphoniums and tubas follow along behind them. Their arms built up by years of hard work are easily capable of supporting their huge instruments. They wear the red velvet jackets they had made for their Christmas concerts and effortlessly step in time with each other. The sound is clean and searing, bringing Trixie to tears before she’s even consciously aware of it. 

Behind the band, two of the most senior men at the mine hoist their large cloth banner above their heads, despite a strong wind whistling down the street. It’s emerald green with the mine’s badge painstakingly pinned to it. The badge itself is an orange and yellow circle with a miner’s lamp at the centre. They walk tall and proud, tears flowing down their craggy faces.

She catches her father’s eyes in the crowd and blows him a kiss. Lloyd is just about the tallest, and she’s about to call his name and wave when she sees him smiling shyly at Carly Owens, leaning against the post box on the corner of the street. It makes her chest hurt at first, but she forces herself to keep clapping and smiling at the men until they have disappeared out of sight. She doesn’t go back into the house until the last echoes of the drums have faded away. 

***

After the men go back to work, Trixie keeps going to the womens' meetings down at the Welfare Hall. Their numbers have noticeably dwindled, some women understandably burnt-out and happy to return to normal family life.

What is left is a core of women that don't want to go back to how things were, and Trixie is glad of them. 

On the first meeting after the strike, they make a list of the issues they want to tackle next. They start with ones specific to mining; agitating for an inquiry into the worst riots like the Battle of Orgreave, campaigning for a guarantee that the mines will no longer be at risk, raising money to help families that have fallen into debt.

Sian James, bless her, has a bee in her bonnet about the lesbians and gays. She wants to campaign for equal rights for gays that want to rent a home together, and for better treatment of the growing number of men getting that American disease. 

"Did you know?" Sian asks, "That it's only legal to have gay sex with _just one_ other person, and it can't be in a shared house?"

"So what, if you shared a flat with a friend but you were a gay with a boyfriend, you couldn't shag him when your friend was home?" Trixie asks incredulously.

"Exactly!" Sian shouts, elongating the vowels in her passion. "If the police don't like the look of your face, and you know what they're like, they could bash the front door in -"

"When you're bashing the back ones in," says someone, and the group erupts into uproarious laughter. 

The conversation moves on, but Trixie wants to stop them and make them discuss it further. She wants to force them to really put their feet in the shoes of the gay men. She doesn’t. Instead, she wraps the long pink sleeves of her jumper over and around her hands, gripping the material in her palms. 

Other members of the committee suggest tackling issues further afield or raising money for soldiers who fought in the Falkland’s. They can't decide, and eventually the meeting is adjourned for another time.

When she gets home, Trixie pulls down the heavy slab of the Yellow Pages from the bookshelf. She remembers a department store in Cardiff that Mrs Kasha Davis described as, "The best place to buy make up this side of Harrods." 

She remembers that the store had a man’s name, but she can’t remember it for the life of her. She flicks to the department store page and trails her finger down the page until she gets to the address of James Howell's Department Store. 

Trixie reaches back up on the shelf for her gran's old battered thesaurus and tries to remember how to format the letter like she was taught in school. 

Trixie places a guidance sheet with thick black lines underneath a thinner white page, so her writing won’t slant down the page. She writes lightly in pencil first, trying to keep her handwriting as elegant as she can.

She uses the thesaurus to help her, exchanges "hard working" to "dedicated" and then finally "conscientious." “Friendly” becomes “charismatic sales person” and “try” becomes the more grandiose “endeavour.” She’s not quite sure what to say, but she mentions Mrs Davis and then describes what working at the shoe shop was like. When she’s satisfied, she writes over the pencil with her dad’s best pen. 

On a whim, she includes some sketches of make-up looks that she has done on herself, and ones that she has dreamed of doing if she had access to the products.

Trixie had made five copies of Mrs Davis’ letter at the Post Office, at 12p a sheet. She staples one to the back of the letter and folds the whole lot in an envelope. 

For the next two weeks, Trixie waits for the postman with trepidation. Finally, she receives a letter addressed to her, with handwriting she doesn’t recognise.

She rips it open as fast as she can, wanting to know the outcome before she can allow herself to feel any hope. Her eyes jump across the page, scanning as fast as she can. 

_”Dear Miss Mattel,_

_Thank you for your enthusiastic letter, which I read with interest. I do indeed remember Kasha, she has been a customer of ours for many years. We will congratulate her on her retirement when she makes her next visit to the shop. I am sorry to hear that this means you are now looking for employment, but I am delighted to be able to invite you in for an interview at our counter. You will be required to…”_

Trixie stops reading. She’s too excited to take in the information. She can’t stop herself from doing a happy wiggle across the kitchen, socks slipping on the lino as she celebrates. 

“Mam! Dad! I’ve got an interview!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to write the next bit. 
> 
> Incidentally, they shut Trixie's dad's mine in 1990.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that the next one will be a. quicker & b. shorter.
> 
> Content warnings: Drinking & smoking, 80s era stigma around mental health & mental health nursing.

**May – September 1985**

On the day of her interview Trixie tries on almost everything in her mother’s wardrobe. 

She borrows a magenta jacket from her mam and ties a flimsy scarf into a loose pussy bow under her chin. The outfit would look much chicer if the skirt was the same shade of pink as the jacket, but she doesn’t fit into her mum’s matching skirt. The zip won’t even get up half way over her thighs. Instead, she has to wear her own black skirt. She wears a pair of translucent tights and the black leather shoes that Mrs Davis gave her from the shop. She hasn’t worn them in yet, and the leather is unyielding as she bends her feet from heel to toe.

She tries to keep her make up as clean as possible, with pale pink lips and precisely applied blusher in a pretty coral colour. She tries her best to hide her roots by pulling her hair up into a bun. Her fine baby hairs that grow straight upwards and then loop into curls have formed a messy ring around her face. Sighing, Trixie sprays hair spray on to the tips of her fingers and runs her fingers over them until they lie flat to her head. She discharges a good portion of the rest of the can over her hair to hold the rest in place.

Trixie borrows her dad’s car to drive into Cardiff for her interview. It takes her well over an hour. She clings to the border of the mountainous national park for the first part of the drive, before she drives down from the valleys and into the city. The further she gets along the motorway the more daunting it becomes. Tall white lorries overtake her closely, and her father’s old car shakes and rattles. Trixie feels her hands tighten on the steering wheel, but she forces herself to keep singing loudly along to the tape ticking away in the cassette player.

Her dad’s old A-Z map is open on the seat next to her, a ring around the street she is looking for. The traffic builds as she enters the city and before long she finds herself sitting forward in her seat and squinting at road signs as cars behind her honk their horns. 

She parks up near the shop and spends a few minutes looking in the mirror to smooth down her hair and check for mascara smudges under her eye. Trixie lights a fag and smokes it in quick puffs, before rooting in the glove-box for one of her mum’s ancient mint humbugs. 

The shop is enormous. It takes up almost a whole block of the street, marked with tall, fluted columns and stone carvings of Greek scenes. Underneath every window is a plaque of shining brass announcing the name of the shop, and around the door there are stone carvings of vine leaves laden with abundant fruits. The inside is just as luxurious, with white marble floors that gleam so brightly that Trixie is frightened she’ll trip and fall on them.

The make-up section is almost clinically pristine. A tall, smart looking woman stands with her hands clasped behind her back, in front of a set of wooden shelves displaying the products. Another counter has a different selection of products there for the customer to try, and Trixie is already itching to pull the lipsticks out and start testing them on the back of her hand. 

There’s a round silver stool next to the display, and a set of implements laid out on the countertop just like at the dentist. 

She leans her hip against the stool and clears her throat, “Um, hello. My name is Trixie Mattel. I’m here for the interview.”

The woman shows her upstairs to a tiny room full of cardboard boxes where two plastic chairs are placed opposite each other.

“Could you sit here please? Karen will be along in a moment,” The woman says, gesturing to the chairs. In the tiny room the chairs are crushed so tightly together that Trixie imagines her knees will brush against Karen’s. She tries to scrape her chair back to give herself a bit more room, but it’s useless. 

When Karen arrives, she’s an older lady with tightly curled grey hair and cat’s eye glasses. Her lipstick is a bold, matte red and she carries a smart leather Filofax. She starts by asking Trixie a series of questions, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper that she holds on her knee. As Trixie answers she nods, keeps looking up to smile encouragingly at Trixie.

Karen unzips her Filofax and takes out a laminated sheet of paper with different beauty products printed on it. She brings out another sheet and sets it next to the first. 

“Right,” says Karen, “I’d like you to take your time and read these customer profiles and then pick some products that they might like.”

Trixie reads through them and points at which products she would pick for each customer.

“A bright lipstick? For that customer?” Says Karen, “I think that lady might be the sort of lady who feels that a bright lip is a bit beyond her.”

Trixie rears back in her seat and shakes her head, “I’d say to her, 'The only difference between you and someone else who wears a bold lip is that one day they just started.'”

Karen’s mouth twitches, “That’s true, that’s very true.”

She asks Trixie a few more questions and gets Trixie to do a few simple sums in her head. They take Trixie a couple of seconds to work out, but she gets them right.

Eventually, Karen folds the piece of paper and zips it up inside her Filofax. She reaches her hand across the tiny distance between them and shakes Trixie’s hand, “We’d love to have you, Miss Mattel. When can you start?”

***

Trixie asks Mrs Hughes, the Newsagent, to order in the Cardiff newspapers for Trixie so she can check the property listings. She’s hoping to find a suitable place to live so that she can start her job and move to the city. Eventually she sees a listing for an older widow looking for a younger woman to fill the empty rooms in her house.

Trixie uses the phone box to ring, and the woman agrees to let Trixie cook and clean for her in return for Trixie’s first month’s rent. 

Trixie’s parents drive her down to Cardiff on the weekend before her first shift at the store, her back seat covered in boxes.

When they arrive, Trixie’s dad silently moves all the boxes from the backseat to the pavement outside the house and then stands smoking with his back against the car.

Trixie’s mum sits in the front seat. She’s worn dark sunglasses for the whole drive.

“I’ll miss you, Trixabelle.”

“I’ll miss you too, mam,” She’s been looking forward to this for weeks but suddenly it’s too much, too soon. She wants to tell her dad to get back in the car, drive them back home. 

Her mam’s voice sounds tight and reedy, “I’ll come visit you, I promise. I’ll come into the shop and you can do me up like one of the posh old ladies. I want to look like Joan Collins, alright?”

Trixie snorts, “Of course.”

Her dad knocks the door and shakes hands with her new land lady, Mrs Omar. Once he’s happy that Trixie will be safe there, he returns to the car and they drive off. Trixie’s mam never leaves the car, but Trixie is fairly sure her sunglasses are hiding tears as they drive away. 

Trixie’s new home is a stocky, stone terraced house just like the one she grew up in. But while the village has just a couple of streets of houses, this area of Cardiff seems to have endless rows of them. Trixie’s mam had to call the names of the street as they drove past, and Trixie was starting to despair that she’d written the name down wrong. Every so often they pass a Church or a little row of shops, but mostly there are just streets of terraced houses. Trixie has no idea how she’s ever going to find her way around. In the distance Trixie can see the docks; masts of ships and towers belching black smoke poking out over the rooftops. 

Trixie’s room is small and old-fashioned, with a worn pistachio carpet and a single bed with a starchy brown and orange duvet cover. She unpacks her record collection first, propping her up her favourites across the top of her chest of drawers so they brighten it up. She takes out a few of her most sentimental bits of jewellery and lies them out neatly on the top of the drawers. Next, she unpacks the chocolate and the packet of cigarettes that Katya gave her and tucks them away in her nightstand. 

***

Mrs Omar is in her eighties. She spends a lot of time sitting in long cotton nighties, hands folded over her stomach and her eyes half closed. 

Whenever Trixie sits next to her, she starts recalling the same old story. She grew up in an Irish family in the docks of Tiger Bay. The _old_ Tiger Bay. She apparently lived near Shirley Bassey and the kids in her primary school spoke 19 different languages between them. They played in the street and no-one had a fridge or an inside toilet. She married a Somali man and even though some people used to spit on their shoes when they walked hand-in-hand in the street, they had forty happy years of marriage. 

She beams as she tells Trixie that their wedding was open to anyone, as per the Somali tradition. Even now she can barely believe that over 800 people came to see her draped in gold and embroidered robes. Anyone who was anyone in the Somali community was there, they even came down from London to see them get married. 

Mrs Omar squeezes Trixie’s fingers tightly, “Even if it means that small minded people make trouble for you, the heart wants what the heart wants.”

Trixie wants to ask her more about this, but Mrs Omar always dozes off half way through and when she wakes up, she can never remember what she was saying.

In addition to her own room, Trixie is free to use the kitchen, lounge and small walled garden as her own. Mrs Omar only has a few odd rules; no TV after 8pm, clean towels only on Tuesdays and no outgoing phone calls unless previously agreed. Despite the rules, Trixie is grateful to be able to come and go on her own terms. 

Trixie has promised to cook and clean in return for her rent, but Mrs Omar barely makes any mess and she doesn’t have much of an appetite any more. She asks Trixie for small portions of food in very precise configurations. She is partial to three walnut halves, a cube of cheese and a spoonful of honey. Her breakfast is always porridge made with nutmeg and double cream. 

On Fridays Mrs Omar likes a fish supper. She gives Trixie enough change to get them both supper from the Fish and Chips shop down the road. She never finishes her fish. She strips off her fried batter for Trixie to eat alongside her own portion of fish, chips and mushy peas.

***

The spring and early summer are glorious for Trixie. She gets good at her job. She works from open to close, walks home with burning feet to lie out in the garden with a can of beer.

There’s always so much to learn about cosmetics. She learns about the different layers of skin and buys a notebook where she can draw and label the dermis and the epidermis with different colour pencils.

Trixie masters the best technique to cover up rosacea, the best way to bring out a hooded eye, how to use the eyebrows as a frame for the face. The company releases a bottle of cucumber scented water that Trixie sweeps over customer’s faces with a fluffy cotton pad. 

She sighs deeply as she dabs at their skin, “I love this, it’s so refreshing. If you want an extra boost, you can always put it in the fridge overnight. I read that’s what Farrah Fawcett does .”

That can usually shift a bottle, and Trixie likes imagining the tall glass bottles nestling between bottles of milk and jars of marmalade in fridges up and down south Wales.

Another sales tactic that Trixie has learnt is to let the customer feel she is letting them in on a secret. She shows them the foundation marketed to provide twelve-hour coverage and leans in, whispers, “In my view, it’s more like a seven, eight-hour kind of thing.”

A small number of her customers are disagreeable old ladies. They’re a particular type of disagreeable old lady that you find in Wales, usually from a small village where they know they’re from the wealthiest family. 

They call out to each other, “Have the shop girl help you, Barbara.”

They shout to Trixie, clicking their fingers, “Shop girl! We need you over here.”

But Trixie likes the majority of her customers. Trixie instructs them to close their eyes and relax as she applies the products to their faces. They close their lids somewhat stiffly at first, wincing as she stipples eyeliner on. 

They unwind as she gently strokes her soft blusher brush over their cheekbones and tells them that it’s all about enhancing what you have.

She often sighs, says something along the lines of, “Wow, your eyelashes are so long. I’d usually recommend getting our lash curlers. But I really don’t think you need them.”

She gains their trust, and more often than not they’ll start speaking to her as she works on their skin. With their eyes shut, it’s easier for them to open up about why they’ve come in for a consultation at the counter. 

There are the women that come in for a new look after a break up, or after their kids have left home. There are the ones that have just got a new man, younger or wealthier than them, and have an image to maintain. She meets women lawyers and women headteachers and women with jobs she doesn’t fully understand.

She becomes the best saleswoman in the team and starts to fix her eye on the competition for the Christmas bonus. 

When Trixie receives her first pay slip, she gives some to Mrs Omar, sends a little bit back to Onllwyn for her parents, and then squirrels most of the rest away to get her hair done.

When she’s saved up enough money, she picks a salon in a tiny arcade in the middle of town. It’s not the glamorous, space-age salon of her dreams, but it looks affordable and friendly. It’s run by a Greek – Cypriot family and as soon as Trixie walks in she is overwhelmed by the blue glass ‘evil eyes’ nailed up around the door, and framed pictures of the Virgin Mary on every wall. 

She toys with the idea of getting a dramatic cut. But the salon has pictures of the cuts you can choose around the wall. The cuts for women are on one side of the salon, and the ones for men on the opposite side. The ones for women show nothing shorter than the Princess Diana. Trixie isn’t even sure what she wants to ask for. She doesn’t feel like she could just point to something from the men’s side .

Trixie finally decides that she’s going to get her roots lightened, and then add a warm honey colour right through to the ends. The hairdresser says it’s more sophisticated than the brassy blonde Trixie always used to go for. Trixie asks for a short little fringe, with more short layers on the top of her head to give it all more volume. Trixie has a few inches snipped off the bottom, and the frayed ends floating to the floor feels like catharsis. 

The stylist rubs mousse in Trixie’s hair, working it through until her hair is messy and huge. It’s perfect. When the stylist steps back Trixie spends a few minutes just staring at herself. She’s felt scruffy for so long now that she can barely believe it’s her own reflection staring back at her .

***

Trixie’s favourite shift is the closing one. She likes taking the coins and notes out of the till, piling them up and counting them so that she can fill out the sales sheets and fax them off to the Head Office. She feels a sense of pride when she signs her name at the bottom of the sheet, hopes that whoever receives her reports notices the way she writes the figures in a neat column, always keeps her writing within the boxes. 

Trixie likes checking on the stock at the end of the day, opening the drawers to neatly stacked identical boxes. She reads their names out to herself, “Casablanca,” “Brooklyn Heights,” “Golden Shores,” each a mini daydream in itself. 

The girls on the make-up counter occasionally receive packages of miniature cosmetics to try out before they go on sale. She keeps the products that she’ll use and sends the rest to her mam or Rhiannon.

Trixie gets on with her colleagues, but she doesn’t let them close. They’re all local girls. They speak fast, in the brash, harsh accent that Trixie thinks sounds closer to Scouse than anything Welsh. She’s the only one without a man or a baby and she often feels she has little to add to their staff-room conversations. 

Trixie is content to remain on the periphery, flicking through the TV guide while they talk about midnight feeds and new recipe ideas. 

They talk endlessly about their diets and Trixie looks down at her belly, outlined by her tight white tunic. She thinks she’s beyond the point where having an egg white omelette for breakfast and a handful of nuts before her evening meal will make much of a difference. 

There are a good few weeks when she hardly thinks of Katya at all, until she has a customer that brings her to mind. 

The customer is older, with long grey hair tied back in a ponytail and red lips that she’s outlined to look bigger than they are. Her lips match her dress; a close-fitting red shift dress with long, flared sleeves that she has to shake back when they flap over her hands.

Her eyelids are painted in a shimmery navy shade and beneath them her eyes are sharp and intelligent, they remind Trixie of Katya’s. 

Trixie finds out that she’s a Paediatric Consultant at the hospital and she has a broad smile and creases in her skin either side of it. Her smile reminds her of Katya too, and something about her humour that Trixie can’t quite put her finger on. 

The customer, Cadi, wants to know how to minimise the lines around her mouth.

To show Trixie what she wants she dramatically pulls the skin on her face apart with her hands so that it stretches taut, and then shrieks with laughter at herself.

Trixie leans in to touch her skin, and Cadi murmurs, “Your perfume is lovely, what are you wearing?”

Trixie doesn’t have her own perfume at home any more. She makes a beeline to the perfume counter every morning and has a squirt of something new. She chooses based on what is the most expensive and has the most opulent looking bottle.

“It’s Poison, by Dior. It was released at the beginning of this month. We’re the first store in Wales to stock her,” Trixie says, close enough that her eyelashes could brush Cadi’s cheekbone.

She’d chosen Poison based on its rounded, regal purple bottle and heavy, bombastic scent. 

“Hmm,” Cadi hums thoughtfully, “I’ll have to pick up a bottle before I go.”

Trixie has a go at buffing their premium foundation into Cadi’s lines, but she’s not convinced it looks any better. Instead, she tells Cadi that she thinks the lines give her spirit and character and sells Cadi a subtly iridescent pencil that she can put on her cupid’s bow and a lip liner that is a closer match to her lipstick. 

Trixie rolls the pencils up in tissue paper and presses a little sticker down onto the paper to hold them shut. She’s got good at tucking the ends of the paper into the package as she rolls so they look neat.

Cadi swipes her card through the machine and signs the receipt.

“Before I go, will you show me where I can find that perfume of yours?”

Trixie totters over to the perfume counter in her heels, and then back to Cadi.

Cadi tips her head back, exposing her long neck and prominent clavicles to Trixie, “Will you do the honours?”

Trixie gives her a series of generous squirt with the bottle, until her neck is glistening wet. One droplet trickles down over her sternum and soaks into the fabric of the bra that is just peeking out. Trixie’s eyes follow it hungrily. 

Cadi tosses her head from side to side, breathing in deeply, “Ahh, it’s sexy! But maybe a little much for the ward. The patients would smell me coming from the other side of the hospital.” 

Trixie agrees, “It wouldn’t do much for you if you were feeling nauseous!” 

Cadi lets out a long peal of laughter, moving her hands asking until they’re lost in her long floppy sleeves again. 

Trixie bags up the rest of Cadi’s purchases, hooks the string of the short paper bag over Cadi’s fingers. She can’t resist giving Cadi a brilliant smile as she does.

She pulls open the heavy glass and metal door for Cadi so that she can step out on to the street easily. Cadi is holding her shopping, her handbag and an umbrella, and the door is difficult enough to hold open with both hands. Cadi steps through the doorway in front of Trixie, then turns back to wave before she disappears across the street. As a saleswoman, Trixie knows it’s important to provide the personal touch in order to encourage repeat business. 

On her walk home Trixie interrogates herself about her intentions. Trixie knows that she found Cadi very attractive, but she wouldn’t know where to start with trying to seriously approach a woman.

Cadi held Trixie’s eyes for a longer than average time, but she might just be friendly. She is a doctor for kids, Trixie reminds herself, that must involve being smiley and nice.

A few weeks later, Trixie is walking home through the city centre when she is stopped in her tracks by a group of three women sharing a pint together outside a grubby looking pub. They all remind her of Katya’s friends. 

Nearest Trixie there’s a fat, blonde woman with a sleeveless denim jacket. She rests her thick ruddy arms on the table, and Trixie finds herself staring at their freckles and their faded, almost blue tattoos. Next to sits a woman with a very closely shaved head and a line of little silver rings in the shell of her ear. Her leather jacket is covered in badges, patches and pieces of silver chain. 

Between them, is a woman in a torn up The Clash t-shirt, gesticulating with her pint glass in her hand. Her hair is dark; cut short and flat like Katya’s but with one longer, blonde bit that falls in front of her face.

Trixie walks a little closer, makes out like she’s looking in the window of the shop next door.

The woman has blue eyes fringed with long lashes. The skin under her eyes looks yellow and blue with tiredness, and her cheeks are a blotchy red. Trixie thinks she’s stunning.

The woman is miming some sort of mishap. She jerks her hand and the beer froths over the side of the glass and down over her wrist and knuckles. Her friends laugh at her, shaking their heads. Trixie wants to lick every drop off her skin. 

Trixie lights a fag. She twists her body so she’s at a three-quarter angle to them, hoping her arse is shown off to best effect. She arches her back as much as she can and drags hard on her cigarette, before releasing it all in one steady breath that she hopes looks sophisticated.

The women don’t look over.

Trixie thinks about approaching them. She likes The Clash. She thinks about asking what they think of the rumours that things are so bad with the band that they’re using session musicians to record the new album; that it won’t be released until this winter, if at all. 

She rehearses her question in her head and then imagines Katya repeating it incredulously in her Brummie accent. She feels like an idiot. 

The stunning woman is still recounting her story, slapping herself in the face with her palm and shaking her head with laughter.

Trixie watches them while she finishes her cigarette, but she doesn’t get any closer.

For the rest of the way home she imagines a conversation with that girl, where they talk about their record collections and Trixie tells her about her ‘ex-girlfriend’s place’ in Camden.

***

In the middle of June, Trixie gets an envelope of pictures in the post. Her mam had mentioned on the phone that the Miner’s Welfare Group had gone to London again for the big gay pride event. Trixie barely remembers the conversation, she’d been pre-occupied with flicking through a catalogue of new products ready to be launched.

She mainly remembers her mam saying that Sian James had organised it all, and her dad shouting, “If I were her husband, I’d be fucking worried!” and both her parents laughing their guts up.

Seeing the pictures is entirely different to hearing it on the phone. She sinks down to her bed, clutching the photos in her hands. 

She holds them carefully by the corners, afraid to leave fingerprints on their surface. One by one she studies them, then puts each photo aside on the bed next to her. 

There are several of Dai Donovan shaking hands with the leader of Lesbians and Gays Support The Miners. Some other older miners stand behind them, holding up the huge banner that they held when they marched back to work. 

Rhiannon has taken lots of pictures of the crowd marching behind them, and Trixie scours every picture for Katya. There’s only one woman that could plausibly be her, but her face is hidden by a large placard. 

The last picture in the pile is the one that holds Trixie’s attention for the longest time. The main focus of the picture is Rhiannon herself, holding a banner that says, “None are free before all are free.” Her son is in the pram next to her, a tiny sailor’s hat shielding his eyes. 

But Trixie is drawn to the elbow cut off in the corner. She knows that dry patch of skin, that fine downy hair, that constellation of freckles. It’s unmistakeably Lloyd’s arm. Trixie stares at it, tries to imagine the rest of what isn’t in the frame. She would understand if Lloyd never wanted to see a gay or a lesbian again, but yet there he is marching alongside them. She has so many questions she wants to ask him, so many things she wants to say. 

At the back of the pouch holding the pictures, Rhiannon has tucked a note:

_Hi Trix, how are you? We all went to London last week. Did your mam tell you? We had a great time, and it was lush to catch up with the LGSM lot. I sat next to Lloyd on the way back home and we had a long natter. You’re a dark horse, Mattel._

_We all love you, and we’re so glad you’re doing well. Your mum tells me you’re the best saleswoman in Wales every time she sees me._

_Can I get a free lippy if I come visit you?_

_Rhi._

_Ps: I wish we’d had that snog in the van now. I wasn’t sure if you were up for it._

Trixie stares unblinkingly at the sheet. The letter seems to loosen something in Trixie . Somebody other than Lloyd knows, and the sky hasn’t fallen in. The ground hasn’t cracked. She wishes she could speak to Rhiannon, to Lloyd. She wishes that she could be back in the Welfare Hall with a fresh pint and a packet of fags, arguing about the latest record releases and dancing to Boy George on the ersatz dancefloor. 

***

There’s a Wednesday afternoon when the sales are slow and the other girls cluster around the counter. As the shift drags on and on, they slip their high-heels off to rest their burning soles on the cool marble floor. Trixie takes her hair down from its high pony tail and shakes out her blonde curls. 

One of the girls rests her chin in her hands and fixes her eyes on Trixie, “You’re a pretty girl, why don’t you have a man?”

Trixie pretends to think, “I’ve only just moved here, really. I don’t know anyone - ”

Another girl shouts, “Oh! My cousin is single! And he owns two garages in town.”

Trixie begins to feel a little sick, “I don’t really have any time at the – “

Luckily, she’s cut off by someone else cawing, “Is that the cousin that has just come out of prison?”

The conversation moves on to squabbling about people that everyone else seems to know, and Trixie is left out again.

When she finally gets her break, Trixie slips off the clinical white tunic and tucks her lanyard under the cotton t-shirt and plain skirt she wears underneath. She crosses over the road to the large public library, an intimidating Victorian building with statues of Greek goddesses lounging around the door.

She hasn’t been to the library in the city yet, and she aimlessly browses the shelves for a while before finding the courage to speak to the librarian.

She doesn’t know what she wants, not really. She remembers a film she saw with Mabli before the strike. It had Julie Walters in it, as a woman going back to school to do an English course. She’d cried like a twat through most of it. For weeks afterwards, she hadn’t been able to look at Lloyd or her family without, “there must be better songs to sing than this” rolling around in her head like a marble. Julie Walters had been going on about a book about a lesbian in New York, but she can’t remember the full title.

Trixie follows the librarian around the stacks until she feels able to stop her and ask for her help.

“Excuse me, do you know of a book…uh, it’s something about a jungle? You know, the one Julie Walters likes in Educating Rita?”

“Rubyfruit Jungle? We have it over here.”

The librarian bustles through the tall stacks and kneels down to pluck it from a shelf, before handing it over to Trixie unceremoniously. The cover is plain, only a small pink flower gives any indication of novel might be about. It’s wrapped up in a thick plastic jacket, but it burns in Trixie’s hands. 

The Librarian stamps inside the cover at the desk, pressing deeply into the ink pad before lining it up with the other dates of when the book was taken out. Trixie stares at the dates, ‘9th February 1985’, ‘17th March 1985’, ‘23th May 1985’. She wonders about the other people that have checked this book out. Were they women? Lesbians? Did they read it alone, or with friends or lovers? 

Trixie quickly falls in love with the main character, Molly Bolt. Trixie admires the way that Molly seems to have always known who she was, to have wondered if girls could marry girls from a young age. Trixie laughs aloud with the book in her hands when Molly says that she would have married her childhood crush if she didn’t have to do the housework. She feels Molly’s anger as her own when she writes about ‘the constant, abrasive sounds from the mouths of the opposite sex,’ and her fight to live free of other people’s perceptions. 

Trixie learns a new language quickly: femmes and butches and queers and diesels and people that fuck grapefruits.

When Molly describes Leota’s slender figure and green eyes, she can’t help but imagine a younger Katya. She reads the passages where they kiss at least three times. She reads the bits where they take their clothes off and lie over each other at least six times. Trixie takes the plastic jacket off the book and examines to spine to see if it’s creased from other people doing the same. She knows how Molly feels when she says that Leona’s kisses made her feel as though she was going to die. She also knows that she would fuck Molly Bolt in a heartbeat, and she thinks about it often.

When she finishes the book, she feels as though she has lost a friend. 

Trixie walks from her lodging into the store where she works and tries to imagine that she’s walking the streets of New York instead. There are no brownstones, no iron fire escapes, no yellow taxis. She imagines what the bold Molly Bolt would say about the women she works with trying to get Trixie to join in with the ‘Beverley Hills Diet’. 

On Trixie’s next trip to the library, she takes the book to the counter and asks the librarian for something similar to read.

The librarian turns to the filing cabinet behind the desk and pulls out a long, narrow drawer. She thumbs through the index cards until she finds the one for Rubyfruit Jungle.

“This comes under women’s fiction, American fiction and, er, women’s special interest; subsection homosexuality. Does that sound right to you? Which of those are you interested in?”

Trixie feels her face heating and her fingers tense around the handbag strap slung over her shoulder.

“Yes. I’m looking for more books about the last one. The last one you said.”

Trixie fights to keep her head her up, her eyes locked with the librarian. She reflexively jerks her shoulder to move her bag strap up closer to her neck. 

The librarian nods and turns back to her filing cabinet. The librarian’s knowledge of the contents of the drawer is admirable. It’s like watching a witch making a potion, Trixie thinks to herself. She envies her. The librarian pulls a drawer out half way, then wrinkles her nose and pushes it back in. She pulls another out and runs her fingers gently along the fins of index cards. She pushes the drawer back in, hesitates and pulls it back out again. She withdraws two cards and holds them up for Trixie.

“I’ll go and find you these two,” she says.

When the librarian returns, Trixie has to push away her disappointment.

The books are older than Rubyfruit Jungle, their covers are drab and old-fashioned. As the librarian stamps them, Trixie checks when they were last taken out. They’ve both been withdrawn in the last year, but far less frequently than Rubyfruit Jungle.

She reads Orlando first. It’s a hard slog to get through. The sentences are too long, too florid. Trixie finds herself reading back over what she’s already read, searching for the commas. She needs to read with her dictionary next to her, looking up words like “orgulous” and “hauteur.” The paragraphs are dense and Trixie finds that she can only read a page at a time when she reads it before bedtime. Her eyes start skipping over the words, hands loosening around the book until it falls to the floor with a thud.

Trixie likes Orlando’s Russian princess; Marousha Stanilovska Dagmar Natasha Iliana Romanovitch. She marvels at the exotic sounds of the name, sounding it out in her head. The descriptions of her are delicious, “like a fox, or an olive tree; like the waves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like an emerald.” She needs a few minutes to absorb the words in their lusciousness, needs to close the book and close her eyes and imagine Sasha skating on the ice for herself. 

Trixie wants a Sasha. She wants a beautiful person to kiss, and love, and admire.

The second book is The Well of Loneliness. Like Orlando, she finds it hard to read. She hates the word, ‘invert’. Every time she reads the word, she feels her stomach roil with inherited shame. She can barely recognise herself in any of it. And yet, by the time she gets to the final page she finds herself sitting up in bed, hunched over the book as fat tears drip down and soak into the paper. She tries to stifle the sound of her crying as she reads the final words, _'give us also the right to our existence!'_

The next day she feels as though she has a ghostly spectre around her. When she talks to customers, she can barely look them in their eyes . She feels an anger, a fear, that reminds her of Graham’s police horse rearing up in front of her.

She returns to the library on her break and presses the books back to the librarian over the counter. 

She asks, “Have you got anything more, um, happy?”

The librarian takes Trixie to the shelves and withdraws another book. This one has two women on the cover, standing on a boat and looking in separate directions. 

The librarian says, “This one only came out a couple of years ago. I think it’s written for kids, but I’ve heard that no one dies at the end.”

Trixie takes the book and follows the librarian back to the counter to get it checked out. 

The librarian looks up from her ink pad and stares at Trixie.

“You know, if you are interested in books like these you might want to see this magazine we have over there,” The librarian points at the notice board in the entrance to the library.

“It’s made by some local women. They bring it in and leave it in the foyer. They’re not supposed to leave them, but I just put one of the Weight Watchers posters over them whenever my boss is checking the board.”

Trixie nods shyly, mutters that she’ll take a look on the way out.

The noticeboard is covered with posters for baby groups, Bible study groups and opportunities for door-to-door sales. But then Trixie sees a booklet pinned up on the board. The title, the ‘Womyn's Liberation Newsletter’ has obviously been hand drawn and then photocopied and roughly stapled together. Every ‘O’ in the title has been turned into a Venus symbol, and underneath the title **Womyn Only. No male readers. Please respect this,”** is written and underlined. Above the words are a shakily drawn sun with big triangular sunbeams.

Inside the front cover there’s a chatty forward where the editor apologies for the delayed release of the newsletter owing to her cat needing a trip to the vet.

Further on there’s a review of a concert that everyone seems to have traveled to Bristol on a mini-bus to see, and an article about an upcoming meeting of black lesbians and bisexual women in London. There are adverts for a free, community-run creche, a lesbian womens’ reading group, a leathers and motorcycle show and an intriguingly named _consciousness raising_ group meeting at a house not so far from Trixie. Endearingly, there's a short article about a woman selling baskets of eggs and honey from her own garden to raise money for a safe place for women to stay.

It feels like Trixie has just found a map to treasure island. She had no idea there was so much going on in the city. It's thrilling to think of women meeting in the upstairs rooms of pubs and in the front rooms of people's houses.

Trixie laughs aloud when she reads that this month’s horoscopes are not written by the usual writer, the ‘Clairvoyant Mrs Webster’, but by her skeptic girlfriend, Julia. The Leo horoscope instructs Trixie to beware birds and odd socks, while the Virgo horoscope advises her that regular masturbation could yield spiritual insight. 

On the back page there are a number of personal ads, illustrated with a sketch of a female cupid firing an arrow into the chest of a nude, swooning woman.

Trixie skips through the little paragraphs, waiting for one to catch her eye. 

“Leather daddy searching for an eager masochist to – “

“University professor seeking intellectual challenge – “

“Straight passing – “

“Voluptuous Earth goddess avidly seeking an air sign to help me realign my –“

“Efficient, young-at-heart Gower based butch seeking soft-hearted girl for surfing and long walks on the beach. I’ve got two Labradors and I’d love to expand my canine family to include your pups.”

That one is tempting. There’s something warm and tender that makes her want to respond, even though she’s not very outdoorsy, and definitely doesn’t have a dog. 

“Cardiff’s premier ginger, Jewish nurse. Always sleepy. You: A busty girl, Jew or Gentile, with a taste for adventure and trying new things. We’ll eat our way around the world and sing our way through the Great American Songbook.” 

The advert is cheeky and irreverent, and Trixie feels drawn to it. She’s certainly up for trying new things and she’s never been a fussy eater. 

The page asks interested parties to write in to an address given on the back page. It's a domestic address, not far from Trixie. She tucks the magazine away at the bottom of her drawer and tries to think up an interesting response. 

***

It takes two days for Trixie to talk herself into doing it, but Trixie eventually writes in to the nurse’s advert. She’s not too sure how to best sell herself. She bought a pad of writing paper on her way home from work and turns to the first sheet. It’s intimidatingly blank. 

She takes a deep breath and tries to write something, anything.

_I’m a voluptuous blonde looking for someone to show me the sights of the city..._

Trixie crosses it out and starts again. Lloyd had called her voluptuous once, and she’d almost made herself throw up with how much she’d laughed. 

_My name is Trixie. I’m a straight forward Valleys girl looking for…_

_Do you like music? I’m a feisty Madonna fan seeking…_

Each one is stupider than the last. She would feel more able to flirt if she didn’t know that the magazine editor would be reading it too. 

Trixie tries one last time.

_My name is Trixie and I enjoyed reading your personal ad. If you’d like to go on a date with me please call me on 02920 464778._

She adds as an afterthought, _Please call me between 6pm and 8pm if you can. I don’t get home from work until six, and my landlady goes to bed at eight._.

Trixie posts the letter to the editor of the magazine on her way to work and spends the rest of the week day dreaming about whether or not she’ll get a call. 

All week, it seems like there are more red-headed women around than she’s ever seen. Her eyes follow them, but they never seem to look back.

Trixie is dusting a pretty blusher across a customer’s cheek, mindlessly working through the questions she usually asks her customers. When the customer answers that she’s a nurse, Trixie jumps. A shower of sparkly baby pink powder falls on to the woman’s lapel.

“I’m so sorry!” Trixie rushes, brushing it off as quick as she can, “It’s just that I was thinking about my friend, and she’s a nurse too!”

The woman turns and smiles warmly at Trixie, “What’s her name? I might know her.”

“Ah,” stumbles Trixie, “I’m awful with names. She’s got red hair and she’s into, er, singing show tunes.” 

The nurse crinkles her nose and looks puzzled, “No, I don’t think I work with her. Sorry.”

Trixie nods earnestly and tries to get back to her patter, “Oh, shame. The blusher looks lush on you. As a nurse you must sometimes need a bit of a pick me up sometimes. And I think a little pop of colour does just the job.” 

The nurse squints at the little hand mirror that Trixie keeps on the counter. She buys the blusher.

The afternoon is long and dull. Trixie indulges herself in worrying about what Katya is doing. She watches couples in the shop. She watches the way they swing their clasped hands, the way that they giggle with their foreheads close together as they pick out of items to show each other. Trixie wants nothing more than a soft hand clasped in her. She wants a warm neck to hide her face in, she wants to breathe in the reassuring smell of someone familiar, someone loved. 

Eventually it’s time for her to clock out and stuff her lanyard in her bag for the evening. As she walks home, the crotch of Trixie’s tights is steadily falling down her legs. The waistband is rolling itself over her stomach until it suddenly gives up and snaps all the way to underneath her gut. She’s desperate to pee, and by the time she gets to her lodging she’s practically trotting, holding her tights up with her pinky finger so they don’t slide down around her knees.

The lock is sticky and she needs to use her shoulder to barge it open.

She darts upstairs to sort herself out and it’s only when she comes back downstairs that she sees the note on the telephone table, next to the front door. 

Her landlady has scrawled on it, “Trixie. One of your friends rang for you. An English woman called Jinkx. I think she said Jinkx, anyway. She said sorry that she called before six, but she had to call before she went on shift. She’ll meet you at the Viceroy of India at 7pm this Friday.”

Trixie can hardly believe it, takes the note upstairs to read it again and again until she finally tucks it into her drawer beneath the packet of fags Katya bought her. 

***

Trixie borrows a dress from one of the more upmarket ranges in the store for her date. She leaves the tags on because that’s what all the other shop girls do, apparently. Trixie’s been reassured that they’ve all gotten away with it so far.

She chooses a short cocktail dress in a shiny baby pink satin. The neckline is daring, asymmetrical. It cuts across her chest and sticks up in a point in front of her armpit. The waist is tightly belted, with a large fabric bow on the side. 

Trixie lets her hair dry naturally after her shower and then scoops it up to one side to gather it above her ear into a black velvet scrunchie. She puts in some plastic hoop earrings and coats her lip in her favourite pink lipstick, then calls a taxi to the restaurant. 

Trixie has only ever had one curry before. There's one Indian restaurant in the valleys. She once went there with Lloyd and the boys. They'd made a big fuss about ordering the spiciest thing on the menu and had insisted that Trixie, as the only girl, get a korma. When it had arrived, it had been chicken floating in a slick of bright orange, creamy sauce and accompanied by flabby, under cooked chips. 

She hadn't taken to it much, but she’s willing to give it another go if she’s able to talk to a woman while she eats it. 

Trixie arrives first. The restaurant is busy, with barely a free table visible anywhere. The waiter checks a book of reservations before he leads Trixie all the way through to a table near the back of the room. 

No-one else seems to be wearing anything as extravagant as Trixie. As she walks through the restaurant, heads turn to look at her. Most of the diners seem to be men in grey suits, and Trixie detests the way their eyes linger on her.

The food smells delicious; fragrant, savoury and sweet all at once. It makes Trixie's mouth water. She tries to look at what other people are eating but she doesn’t know what anything is called. There are rough balls of something obviously deep fried, golden triangles of pastry and cuts of dark meat sizzling on large metal dishes.

Trixie selects a beer with a picture of a snake on it and tries her best not to wilt under the curious eyes of other diners. Trixie has a brief look at the menu and is alarmed that she doesn’t recognise anything on it, _aloo gobi,_ , _palak paneer_ , _daal makhana_. She wouldn’t even feel confident to read them aloud. 

When she arrives, Trixie spots Jinkx immediately. Her hair is as red as promised in her personal ad and contorted into the sort of extravagant sculpture that reminds Trixie of movie stars from the 1950s. Trixie is mildly ashamed of her relief when she sees that Jinkx is pretty. 

Jinkx’s dress matches the old Hollywood style of her hair. It’s a bright emerald green and cut so that it shows off a deep cleavage, a narrow, sculpted waist and then flares out dramatically.

The skirt is too wide for the small gap between tables at the restaurant. Jinkx has to swivel her hips to pass between the closely packed diners, pressing down on her skirts to compress them. Each time she brushes too close to someone else, Jinkx reaches out and pats their shoulder, smiling as serenely as a saint passing through adoring crowds. 

Trixie is the only woman dining alone at the restaurant and she feels nervous that when Jinkx’s eyes settle on Trixie, she’ll see disappointment flicker in them. 

But they don’t. Somehow, her face only gets livelier, more animated when she makes eye contact with Trixie. 

“Trixie!” Jinkx booms, like she’s known her for years.

Jinkx gathers her skirts before she takes her seat, they’re so voluminous that she bounces a bit as she sits herself down.

She takes a long look at Trixie’s face and sighs, “Gosh, you’re beautiful. Look at your hair, it’s fantastic!” 

Her voice is high and airy, as if she's always speaking on an in-breath. 

Trixie blushes and rubs her lips together to stop herself from smiling too widely. 

"So," says Jinkx, flicking her fingers through the flame of the candle on the table, "Tell me all about yourself. I can’t wait to hear it!" 

Trixie doesn’t think too hard, just says what comes naturally, "So my mam was originally from Banwen, and her dad ran that little butchers down behind the main road. But then my dad’s family has always been from Onllwyn. And they've always been miners, except one uncle who became a Minister . My dad’s dad grew up on 96 Church Road, and we always lived at 144..."

Jinkx holds the menu up in front of her mouth and then lets it slip through her fingers to reveal that she is smiling, her mouth all tugged up at one side.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't realise I was getting the whole damn genealogy!"

Trixie flushes. It's strange to speak to someone who doesn't know her family, the village, the way she grew up. The only other person she's done this with is Katya, and she's trying not to think about her.

Jinkx reaches out and pokes the back of Trixie’s hand, leaving a bright white circle in the flesh there.

"Tell me about _you,_ ” Jinkx says, “I want to know about you."

Trixie tries again, "Um, so. I work on the make-up counter at Howell's in town. I like speaking to people and I like the make-up itself. I love music. I'll listen to anything; pop, punk, new wave...anything." 

Jinkx's smile has broadened out now to show her teeth. They're a bit yellow, a bit crooked. Her smile tugs up even further on the one side. 

Trixie draws stripes in the condensation on her glass with her fingers.

"What would you advise me to buy then?" Jinkx says archly. 

Trixie pauses for a second, “Well, you’ve got a very engaging smile, and a classic style. So, I’d advise a timeless red lip to enhance it.” 

Trixie reaches for Jinkx's arm and twists it up to the ceiling. She examines Jinkx’s veins, looking to see if they are blue or green under the skin.

“You’ve got cool colouring. So, I’d go for a rich blue-toned red.” 

Jinkx raises an eyebrow and licks across the front of her teeth, “Whatcha got that won’t smudge even when I’m eating a pussy ?” 

Trixie jumps and Jinkx cackles. Her laugh is wonderfully uninhibited, she scrunches up her nose and raises her shoulders up to her ears. Trixie cranes her head to look around at the other diners at their tables, to see if they heard Jinkx. Thankfully, no one seems to have overheard. 

“I’m joking! Sorry! I’m joking,” Jinkx screeches, before knocking back another sizable mouthful of her red wine.

When the waiter finally approaches Jinkx orders another beer for Trixie, a bottle of red wine for herself, a basket of poppadum with chutneys and two _thali_. Jinkx assures her that it’s the best way for her to try a little bit of everything. 

While they wait for their food Jinkx talks in long, expansive sentences, leaving little pauses where she waits for Trixie to give a reaction. She gets lost in tangents and then returns to the main thread in some sideways fashion. She’s entertaining enough that it distracts Trixie from her growling stomach, which is no easy feat. 

Trixie finds out that Jinkx is originally from a fancy neighbourhood in North London. She went to a girl’s school and then on to Oxford to study English Literature and Classics, where she got a double first and acted in the amateur dramatics society. Trixie isn’t quite sure what a double first is, but she guesses that it’s better than Trixie’s B in English at A-Level. While Jinkx was studying in Oxford, she had her first relationship with a woman. Jinkx makes the whole experience sound like an idyllic stretch of afternoons rowing on the river and racing bicycles over the cobbles.

“What was your first relationship with a woman like?” Jinkx asks Trixie.

For a moment, Trixie thinks about lying. But if Jinkx is going to look down on Trixie for a lack of experience, she might as well know now.

“It’s been my first and my only. It was a recent thing. She was part of a group that helped raise money when we were striking,” Trixie says quietly, staring at the bubbles in her lager. 

“What was she like?”

“Um, short. Arty. Kind of punky, short blonde hair like this – “ Trixie draws a shape above her own head to indicate Katya’s flat topped cut.

Jinkx sighs and rests her head in her hand, “Oh I’m jealous. I’ve never had a little punky-butchy one. I’d like one to come and rough me up a bit.”

Trixie feels a stab of jealousy at the thought of other women watching Katya, lusting after her. She coughs into her napkin and tries to recover, “When did it end? Your relationship, I mean.”

Jinkx takes another swig of her wine, “After we graduated. My mother said she wanted me to marry! She had someone all picked out. A nice Jewish boy from Tottenham. A Doctor, you know the type!” She waves her hand airily above the table, narrowly missing a passing waiter.

“I said, ‘Mother, I’ll only marry him if we have an arrangement like Virginia and Leonard Woolf’,”

Trixie interrupts, excited to contribute something, “The woman that wrote Orlando?” 

“Exactly!” Jinkx says excitedly, “She should have stayed with Vita. I mean, it might still have ended with a high tide and a pocket full of rocks, but we might have got another novel out of it first!”

Trixie blinks at Jinkx and tries to laugh, as Jinkx’s smirk seems to indicate that she’s waiting for one. 

Jinkx told her parents about the woman, and they’d instructed her to not bother coming home. Jinkx leaves a longer pause for Trixie’s reaction to her latest revelation. Trixie is frozen, her chest seizing with the thought of never seeing her parents or her sister again. Jinkx seems blasé about it, brushing her long red hair over her shoulders and then lighting up a cigarette. 

“She moved back to Ireland and married whatever man her parents picked out. And that’s when I moved to Wales!” Jinkx announces, breaking off a piece of crispy poppadum and dipping it in the vibrantly green mint sauce.

“I started at nursing college. I had tremendous fun in the women only lodging house, I’ll tell you,” She gives Trixie a saucy wink . 

Trixie leans forward and rests on her elbows, enthralled by Jinkx’s theatrical storytelling. 

Jinkx has been a nurse for seven years now, she’s currently working at a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of the city.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Trixie can’t help asking .

Jinkx laughs uproariously.

“What do you think it’s like? Are you imagining a Victorian asylum? People shaking at the bars crying ‘Let me out! I _am_ Napoleon’s mistress!’”

Jinkx hoots at her own joke and slams her palms down on the table so hard that the cutlery shakes. People do crane their necks to look at them this time. Jink smiles at them regally. She picks up the bottle and pours herself another glass, swirls it around before she takes another mouthful of it. 

Trixie shakes her head, “No. But I just mean that the people might be…unpredictable?”

Jinkx tells Trixie all about her work at the hospital. She’s warm and funny when she talks about her patients. She has a lot of stories that are on the line between tragedy and comedy. Jinkx has Trixie creased with laughter when she tells the story of a the distressed woman with dementia throwing a full bed pan at her. It's the image of Jinkx wringing piss out of her white apron that really tickles her. But Jinkx seems to have just as many, if not more, stories about spending Christmas with her patients, about her patients that speak different languages, and who are poets, and the ones that have been abandoned at the hospital by despairing families. She talks about the hospitals that think they can get away with treating patients badly because they're hospitals to treat people's mental health. Jinkx shakes her head vehemently and slams her wine glass down on the table to punctuate her point. 

Jinkx gets into a rhythm of complaining about _Care in the Community_ , something that Margaret Thatcher is bringing in. It’s ostensibly to stop institutionalisation, but it sounds like Jinkx and most of her colleagues believe it’s more about saving the government money. Trixie already trusts Jinkx much more than Thatcher.

Her rant is interrupted by their main meals arriving. A thali seems to be a shallow metal tray with more metal bowls inside it. There’s a bowl of rice with a stick of cinnamon and almond slices scattered over the grains, a spicy lentil soup that reminds her of something her nan used to make and a triangle of soft bread with fragrant dark seeds and a puddle of melted butter on top. Then there are two bigger dishes, each with a thick looking curry inside. Everything is topped with a green leaf that Trixie assumes is flat-leaf parsley and is surprised when she eats some and finds that it’s not.

Trixie ends up talking about the strike. It's surreal to reflect back on how difficult it was, how little they had. It already feels a bit like a dream. When she tells Jinkx about visiting the picket line and Graham chasing him down with his horse and truncheon, she feels like she has to tone down her fear in case Jinkx thinks that she's exaggerating. She talks about helping the welfare group run the free kitchen, driving around in the van with Rhiannon, the trip to London with Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. She feels proud of her own efforts, proud of all the people in the village who gave it their very best shot.

Jinkx listens sympathetically. A little frown appears between her eyes as she concentrates, and she cradles her wine glass between her hands. She makes soft little noises whenever Trixie’s voice falters.

“I saw it all on the news, of course,” Jinkx says, “But I can’t imagine going through it. It sounds like a very difficult time,”

She gives Trixie a deep, searching look, like Trixie has suddenly gone up in her estimation.

Jinkx continues, “My friend in general nursing said that she saw so many men with nasty injuries from the picket line. On both sides.” 

Jinkx tells Trixie about the industrial action she’s been part of since she started nursing, over pay and conditions. Jinkx doesn't think the nursing union is satisfied, she is sure there will be another nationwide strike before long. She tells Trixie about a restaurant in London called _Bedside Manner_ , with waitresses that dress up as sexy nurses. A group of real nurses have been picketing the place, and Jinkx wishes she could join them. She's outraged, incensed by the disrespect shown to her profession.

Her eyes shine even brighter when she really digs into her argument. Trixie doesn't have the same nauseous feeling that she got around Katya, the one that Molly Bolt got around her childhood girlfriends. But she likes Jinkx; she's smart and passionate and, most of all, weird.

The food is delicious; It’s spicy and sweet and just when Trixie thinks she could guess at most of the ingredients there is something she hasn’t come across before. The side of her plate is filling up with little green pods that taste warm, perfumed and somehow medicinal. She tried chewing them at first but they’re too woody, and instead she just piles them up behind one of the dishes. 

They end up talking about school, about their favourite type of weather, where in the whole world they’d like to travel. They compare record collections, and Trixie can’t help wrinkling her nose at the amount of Dusty Springfield and Judy Garland Jinkx seems to own.

Jinkx ends up on her second bottle of wine, Trixie onto her fourth pint of lager. Her ponytail is slipping further and further down the side of her head, and she’s got a dribble of orange sauce down the front of her borrowed dress. She doesn’t want to waste anything they’ve ordered and so she uses the last part of her bread to soak up the dregs of the sauce. She swirls it around around the corners of the little metal bowls so there isn’t even a streak of curry left. 

The restaurant has emptied out around them and the waiters hover around their table, waiting to take their dishes.

Jinkx asks for the bill and snatches the handwritten paper slip when it arrives, although she hands Trixie one of the two mint chocolates that comes with it. 

“Let me pay!” Trixie asserts herself.

Jinkx shakes her head tauntingly, “I don’t think so.”

“We could split it?” Trixie suggests. 

Jinkx is adamant, “No. Let me treat a gorgeous woman.” 

Trixie flushes immediately at the compliment. She would usually insist on paying her share, but the hungry way that Jinkx looks at her makes her want to give in. 

“Well, I’ll treat you next time.”

Jinkx calls the waiter and hands him the cash from her purse, “Could you be a brick and call my friend here a taxicab? Thank you darling!”

They wait at the table until the waiter tells them it arrives, and Jinkx walks Trixie out of the restaurant. 

The taxi is parked a little way down the street. As soon as they are not walking in front of the windows of the restaurant, Jinkx grabs Trixie’s elbow and stops her.

Trixie looks down at Jinkx’s face. She likes the honesty in her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the slight dimple in her chin. She likes her smirk and the way her ginger curls bob on her shoulder.

Jinkx breaks the silence, “Would you like a kiss, or shall I keep my garlic breath to myself?”

Trixie kisses her. It isn’t as fiery as her first kiss with Katya. It’s slow, sweet. Jinkx’s lips move against hers gently. She hums a little into Trixie. The inside of Jinkx’s mouth is burning hot. She tastes of spices and smells of a heady perfume and Trixie doesn’t want it to stop. Jinkx moves her hands around Trixie’s waist to give her arse a firm squeeze and then back move up to rub the small of her back. 

Too quickly, Jinkx delicately pulls back. 

“Where do you live? Do you want to share my taxi?” Trixie whispers. Her voice sounds weak, breathy.

Jinkx laughs, crinkling her nose, “I live around the corner. I chose somewhere close in case I got so pissed the cabs wouldn’t take me. I knew I could always crawl home.”

Trixie blurts, “Will you call me?”

“Oh I’m definitely calling, sweetie” Jinkx’s eyes sparkle in the streetlights.

Jinkx links arms with Trixie to accompany her to the taxi, and opens the door so that Trixie can slide herself in. As the taxi drives down the street Trixie knocks on the window to get Jinkx’s attention. She mimes crawling along the street, puts on a little stumble so she looks drunker than she is. Trixie waves through the glass until the taxi turns at the end of the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The four books I mention are Rubyfruit Jungle, Orlando, The Well of Loneliness and Annie On My Mind. You can download Orlando and The Well of Loneliness for free [here](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/woolf/virginia/w91o) & [here](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/h/hall/radclyffe/well-of-loneliness).
> 
> [This](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_lesbian_periodicals/) is a super-fun Wikipedia page. Also if there's a magazine you're interested in I've found that some have been digitised, which is a super nerdy delight. 
> 
> I by no means want to imply that Trixie has a discriminatory attitude towards people experiencing mental health problems. But chatting to my mum about working in mental health now vs working in mental health in the 80s made me want to include something like that. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing a little cameo by fandom Katya into this! Thanks to [Campholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/campholmes/pseuds/campholmes) both for her extraordinary contribution to the fandom and for giving me the idea for calling Katya Cadi, which is a Welsh version of Katie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't manage to make this one faster!
> 
> I hope that I'll be able to publish chapter 9 before Christmas, especially as Christmas makes an appearance! But it's a hectic time of year.
> 
> Happy holidays! 
> 
> Content warning: Smoking & drinking, a small amount of negative body talk, talk about compulsory heterosexuality (woah Rich will have been writing about that only five years before when this chapter is set.)

**September - October 1985**

Trixie has never really cock-teased anyone. She’s never made anyone wait for it.

When Lloyd’s friend Aaron told Trixie that Lloyd thought Trixie was pretty, she had been too flattered and relieved to hold out long. She had only been 15, but she’d already started to think of herself as too big to be desirable. She felt repulsive in her school uniform. Her tie was always digging into her fat neck, her oversized breasts like a shelf under her baggy polyester jumper. When she found out that Lloyd was interested, suddenly she was drawn to his big ears, his shy demeanour. 

Trixie let Lloyd fuck her within weeks. Her motivation for getting it over with was to ensure that the other girls knew they were legitimate, that they were a real couple. Lloyd was taller than her, with a love for music and a gentle disposition that made Trixie think that it was enough to meet her needs.

Unexpectedly, she had found that she liked sex. It was a good way to pass an afternoon. She liked having the power to make Lloyd stiffen and lengthen, or wither away with her words and actions. She liked the way he bit his lip when he was coming. She liked the closeness it gave the two of them, how she could feel his heart beating through the wall of his chest. 

With Katya, Trixie had felt desperation unlike anything she had experienced before. Her whole body had burned with it. She clearly recalls the way her hands had shaken as she’d touched Katya for the first time, and the film of wetness that had stretched between her labia and her knickers as she’d shed them. 

It is because of this that she has so enjoyed teasing Jinkx. Every time she pulls away from Jinkx, every time she leaves her throbbing and wanting, Trixie enjoys herself a little more. She watches Jinkx watching her and then takes a deep breath and backs off. 

For the next few weeks, Trixie and Jinkx go on a date almost every time that they are both free. Jinkx’s shift pattern and Trixie’s commitment to working most weekends has made it challenging, but they’ve both tried. Trixie enjoys every date, but she never lets Jinkx go beyond a kiss and a grope. Trixie can practically feel the waves of frustration coming off her now. Trixie feels powerful. 

Jinkx takes Trixie to a Portuguese restaurant, and she devours a spicy sausage dish. She tries not to stare as Jinkx ploughs her way through something jelly-like and tentacled. For pudding, they have a few glasses of port and delicate pastry tarts filled with custard. Jinkx insists on ordering a second round of the tarts and encourages the proprietor to top up their port glasses as well. 

The port warms Trixie’s blood and goes to her head. She giggles as Jinkx trailed her nails along Trixie’s inner arms. Trixie waits a while and then slowly she slides the toe of her high-heel up the inside of Jinkx’s calf. Jinkx’s gaze heats her slowly, like those summer days when you don’t notice that you’re burnt until the sun goes down. 

Trixie squirms in her seat while Jinkx looks at her under her lashes. Jinkx insists on paying for their meal again, waving away Trixie’s attempts to get her wallet out of her purse. 

Jinkx cups her hands around Trixie’s, “Would you like to come back for a coffee?”

Trixie holds the menu out to Jinkx jokingly, blinking up at Jinkx with wide eyes, “I think I saw coffee on one of these pages here. Near the back somewhere. You know, you could have a look –“

“Mine will taste better, I promise,” Jinkx smirks back at her.

Trixie shakes her head and uses the small pay-phone in the bar of the restaurant to call her own taxi to Mrs Omar’s house. She’d turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible and crept up the stairs on her hands and knees, desperately trying to stifle the laughter building in her chest. 

When Jinkx asks Trixie what she wants to do next, Trixie asks Jinkx to take her to wherever the other gay couples go. To her surprise, Jinkx has more than a couple of suggestions. Trixie had never imagined that there would be so many gays, lesbians and other assorted queers in south Wales. They seem to flourish in small, dark spaces, like forget-me-nots sprouting between bricks. 

Jinkx is a member of a club that posts out small brass keys so that members can let themselves in, avoiding the need to wait on the street. Trixie tries not to think about why that might be. They walk up a steep flight of stairs and along a corridor before they come to an oasis; a glowing room with buckets of champagne and a light-up dance floor. It’s quiet, and most of the patrons are older men. A couple stand propped up against the bar; one has salt-and-pepper hair and a briefcase and the other is much younger, wearing only jeans and a vest. They slowly sip two flutes of champagne, watching the others on the dance floor. 

To Trixie’s surprise, the old men are amazing movers. They shake and twist their bodies across the illuminated squares flashing blue and orange under their feet. Trixie could happily sit and watch them all night, and she does.

***

Jinkx takes Trixie to an old-fashioned boozer with a room at the back that has been ‘colonised by lesbians,’ as Jinkx puts it.

The bar is just like the Miner’s Welfare back home. It’s got framed rugby shirts on the walls and bronze horse-shoes nailed over the bar, and as Jinkx walks across the sticky maroon carpet she waves serenely at other women. Jinkx’s walk seems to become exaggerated, she crosses her ankles over as she walks, lets her wrists bend and her hands dangle down.

“How do you know those women?” Trixie whispers.

“Oh, you know how it is darling. It’s a small scene. The same old faces everywhere,” Jinkx says, with a world-weary sigh.

She orders them both a drink and sits with her hand on Trixie’s knee. 

At their end of the room, there’s a woman playing show tunes on a busted-up piano. The piano is missing several chunks of wood out of the sides of it, and it’s just barely in tune. Jinkx buys the woman a brandy in return for playing a request.

Jinkx leans on the piano and sings along, her accent turning to a mid-Atlantic drawl that scoops between the notes, _’In olden days, a glimpse of stockin' was looked on as something shockin’…’_. It’s too earnest for Trixie, and her toes curl up in her shoes. 

Trixie shrieks with mortified laughter, grabbing Jinkx’s hand and squeezing it until the bones crunch between her fingers. Jinkx just winks at Trixie, shimmying her shoulders and hamming it up even more. Jinkx sings in a lower register, clicking her fingers to the beat and kicking her legs like she’s on a chorus line. No-one else pays them the slightest bit of attention. 

Trixie knocks back two pints of soupy dark ale and is on her third when a glass soars above the bar. It hits a bar stool and smashes into shards, leaving beer foaming down the wood. Two women start screeching at each other, but before Trixie can figure out what is going on a huge barman wrangles the two women out onto the street. 

Everyone in the back room bustles out to watch. Trixie finds herself rooting for the one on the floor, who is grunting as the other punches her gut. She won’t give up the fight. She is frantically bucking and cycling her legs in the air in an effort to unseat the woman on top. 

Trixie suggests to Jinkx that they intervene, keen to show that she can handle herself. Jinkx rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She tells Trixie that the two women used to be as married as it is possible to be, and now they’re not, but they can’t stand to see each other with anyone else. 

Jinkx takes Trixie’s hand and leads her down another street, away from the cheering and the clapping. Trixie lets herself be pushed up against a wall and kissed, lets Jinkx tangle her hands in Trixie’s hair. She has a fleeting thought that someone could see them, but it’s washed away by Jinkx’s tender lips. Jinkx slides her hands around to the pockets of Trixie’s tight jeans and squeezes her arse.

Trixie lets Jinkx get a few grabs in before she pulls away, “I better start walking home. I’m opening the shop tomorrow, they’ll expect me in by 7.30.”

Jinkx rolls her eyes, “I start my shift at six.”

Trixie smirks, “Well, you better get inside that pub and call yourself a taxi then. You’re a nurse. People are depending on you, you know. You can’t stay in the pub all night, you dirty stop-out.”

Jinkx laughs alongside Trixie, but Trixie can feel her frustration in the sharp way she digs her fingers into Trixie’s backside.

Trixie walks home with her hands in her pockets to keep warm. She can’t help grinning when she thinks about Jinkx walking back into that room of dykes alone and asking the barmaid to call a taxi for one.

***

The next time they go out, Jinkx takes Trixie to a proper club. Trixie has backcombed her hair as high as she can and wears a slashed-up old Madonna t-shirt with a tight leopard print skirt. She’s borrowed a pair of leopard print kitten heels and a cropped black jacket from work. She paints her face paler than she usually would and brushes on a sharp and heavy line of blusher down the sides of her face, starting right up at her temples. Trixie feels good. She can’t resist twisting her hips and pouting in the mirror before she makes her way downstairs to wait for Jinkx to pick her up.

Jinkx’s car somehow manages to look American. It has a wide snout-like bonnet and the wheels are low to the ground. Inside, it’s the messiest car that Trixie has ever seen. The floor is covered in the remnants of various takeaways, crisp packets and old paperback books.

It’s only when Jinkx parks up and steps from the car that Trixie can appreciate her outfit. She’s wearing a long black dress with a cinched waist and floaty, light sleeves. Her gleaming gold earrings dangle over her shoulders and her hair is wild, it looks like Jinkx has tried to brush it out of its usual tightly rolled curls.

“Alright, _Wuthering Heights_ ,” She jokes, looking Jinkx up and down, “You just got back from the _wiley, windy moors_ or what?”

Jinkx guffaws and does a wobbly, wafty pirouette on the pavement. 

She reaches out to grab a handful of Trixie’s hair, “What have you done here? If you only meant to tease it, I think you managed to piss it off!” 

Trixie bats Jinkx’s hand away and leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek instead. 

Jinkx gives Trixie her arm to link hers through and starts rattling on, “I won’t have you saying a bad word about Miss Bush. Her new album is sublime. We must put it on when you come ‘round for tea, darling. It’s not a concept album but it’s not _not_ a concept album. The first side is just…”

Trixie is surprised to find that the club is close to where she works, down an alley behind the bookshop. They are ushered down a flight of stairs and into the club. The club itself is a long tunnel and the bowels of it smell damp, like the back room of a church. But it also smells of smoke, and hair spray, and human sweat.

The music is pumping. It’s so loud that every few minutes Trixie finds herself pressing her two fingers underneath her earlobe to relieve some of the pressure. The DJ plays dark wave and post-punk and then the odd disco classic, chopped up and changed until Trixie barely recognises it. The bass thumps in her chest. Drag queens strut and posture across the stage, and every time Trixie looks down one of the narrow alcoves, she sees bodies writhing together.

Trixie likes looking at the other people in the club. Everyone looks unusual, the sort of people that would probably never think to come in the department store where Trixie works. Some have blocks of hair shooting straight upwards in spikes, others have lurid green hair and black lipstick. They remind Trixie of the people she saw in the Electric Ballroom in London, and she starts to feel the sort of breathless excitement she felt that night. 

Jinkx grimaces as she grinds her hips slowly in the air, jerking her shoulders back so her breasts bounce on the beat. She squats, straight-backed, to grind her hips in a wider circle. Her eyes whip to Trixie to see if she's laughing. Jinkx twitches her eyebrow up, like she's awaiting Trixie’s response. Jinkx has already said that she hates this type of music, and now she’s only dancing to it to play for laughs.

Trixie rolls her eyes, she is determined to make Jinkx dance properly. Under her skirt Trixie is wearing stockings and a garter belt again, and she tries the same dirty trick as she did with Katya.

She shuffles her body back against Jinkx, arching her back so she can rest her head on Jinkx's shoulder. She tries to move her hips as slowly and tantalisingly as she can. She reaches behind her and grabs Jinkx's hands. She guides them around Trixie’s waist, her stomach and down to her hip. Finally, she guides Jinkx's hands to where they'll feel her garters.

Trixie feels Jinkx hiss in her ear. Jinkx uses her nails to pull the garter belt away from Trixie’s skin and ping it back so it snaps on the sensitive skin of her thigh.

The sting of pain makes Trixie pulse. Her eyes flutter closed, and she can't help groaning. She's not sure if Jinkx will be able to hear it over the music, but she'll surely feel the vibrations through their bodies.

"Oh, so she wants to be a bad girl tonight?" purrs Jinkx, and Trixie feels he face flush.

Trixie keeps drinking and dancing. She dances until her feet are burning in her shoes. She's sweating into the armpits of her jacket. Dimly, she thinks to herself that she's going to have to bribe Sophie in the womenswear department to take it back now. She’s got a few samples of that posh moisturiser, that should do the trick.

The DJ plays New Order, Depeche Mode and Echo and The Bunnymen back to back, and Trixie just about loses it. She forgets to dance sexily, and instead she bounces on the spot, letting her hair flick from side to side.

Jinkx lets Trixie break away from their close dancing and watches her with fond bemusement. Trixie stretches her arms high above her head and enjoys the strain in her shoulders and spine. Jinkx’s eyes, predictably, slide to her tits.

Trixie looks at other people's faces as the lights strobe over them. They look just as transported by the music; some of them mouthing the words as they shut their eyes and sway. She loves it here.

When the song changes to a long remix of something Trixie can't place, she grabs Jinkx's wrist and points at the bar. She blows Jinkx a kiss as she disappears into the crowd.

The queue for the bar is a few people deep and Trixie balls her hair up in her hands to let the air get to her neck. She grabs her mirror from her bag and redraws her cupid's bow. Her top lip glistens with sweat. 

Looking down the bar, she sees the same beautiful woman that she saw drinking with her mates outside the pub those months ago.

Her hair is still dark and almost shaved, but with a longer piece of blonde hair that falls into her eyes just so.

This time she's wearing a white vest, battered black jeans and a black silk handkerchief tied around her throat. She's almost flat chested, but Trixie can see the hard points of her nipples through the fabric.

She turns her head and catches Trixie's eyes. Trixie freezes, and the woman looks away again.

The barman is serving people as fast as he can, pulling pints and then spinning around to the till to sort out people's change.

The woman tilts her head towards Trixie again. Trixie can't look away fast enough to avoid locking eyes with her. Her eyes are blue, and in the bar’s harsh neon lighting they look almost otherworldly. 

"Hi," Trixie attempts, raking her sweaty fringe back off her forehead.

"You alrigh'?" She asks in that flat Cardiff accent that Trixie isn't sure she'll ever get used to.

"What do you think is happening with The Clash then?" Trixie blurts. 

"You wha?" says the woman, looking perplexed.

"I saw you once before, outside the Borough. You were wearing a Clash top. I wanted to come over and ask you, but I didn’t. I've been to the place where they shot the London Calling album cover," About half way though, Trixie recognises that she should shut her up, but for some reason she keeps going.

The woman smiles, "I've heard Strummer isn't talking to Jones. And no one wants any synths, but who the fuck knows. Anyway, what you doing in The Borough? Surely that's a bit rough for you. "

Trixie blushes, "I work in Howell's."

The woman whistles, "Howell's, eh? Make-up for old ladies."

Trixie nods guilelessly, "Yeah, I love it. Do you ever wear any make up?"

The woman guffaws, "Nope. Not my scene. What would you do to drag me up, then?"

Trixie brings her face close to the other woman's face, closer than she ever does at work.

Trixie over-balances a bit, catches herself by grabbing the other woman's shoulder.

Trixie jabs at the side of the other woman's cheek with her finger, "It sounds mad but use a splodge of green cream on these red bits and they'll calm right down. I don't think I'd do anything else. You have a lovely face." 

"A lovely face," the woman repeats. Her sardonic tone reminds Trixie of Katya.

"Yeah, look at these lashes," She is drawing her thumb across the soft bristles when an arm wraps itself around her waist and pulls her hips backwards. 

"You okay Trixie?" says Jinkx into her ear.

"Yeah!" Trixie exclaims, "I was just telling, err -"

"Tanya," she supplies, smirking.

"I was telling Tanya that if I was her, I wouldn't wear much make up,"

Trixie gives Jinkx a kiss on her cheek. She feels fizzy in her stomach while she's sandwiched between the two women. If she bends, she can rub herself back onto Jinkx, while still peering closely at Tanya’s face.

She asks, "Would you wear much make up if you were Tanya, Jinkxy?"

Trixie still hasn't moved her hand from Tanya's shoulder. 

Jinkx gives Tanya a long, hard look and grinds out, "No, I don't suppose I would. If I were Tanya."

Another woman turns around from the bar and hands Tanya a new pint. 

Tanya smiles, "Well thank you ladies, you've given my confidence a boost tonight."

She claps Jinkx on the shoulder and disappears off into the crowd on the dance floor.

Trixie pouts, "You scared away my new friend."

Jinkx rolls her eyes, "I'm sure you'd be able to make another if you tried."

There's a fierce look in her eyes that gives Trixie a grimy, dirty feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

"Come dance with me properly," Trixie urges Jinkx. She takes both her hands in hers and squeezes. She widens her eyes beseechingly.

Jinkx let's herself be pulled back to the dance floor. This time, Jinkx's hips move sinuously against Trixie's, pressed so tightly together that Trixie swears she can feel the warmth of Jinkx's pussy. Her hips sway perfectly on the beat. Her thigh rubs between Trixie's, and she leans in to suck and bite at Trixie's earlobe. Trixie is sure that she'll have a bright red stain there. 

Trixie isn't sure how long they dance for, but the lights come on all too soon. They push through the crowd and out of the entrance. The cold air makes Trixie's skin feel even more overheated. 

She grabs Trixie's face and pulls her in for a searing kiss, "I'm too bladdered to drive. How's about we get a taxi to mine?"

Trixie feels her jaw drop a little. She wants nothing more than to push Jinkx down on a soft bed and rut against her.

"No, thank you," she says resolutely, "I told Mrs Omar that I'd be back. I don't want her to worry if she wakes up early."

Jinkx's nostrils flare, and it renews Trixie’s energy. 

"I'm sorry," says Trixie. She's only half gloating.

Jinkx kisses her again, biting against Trixie's lips.

***

Jinkx takes Trixie to see a French film that Trixie doesn’t really understand, although she does look forward to her mother's shrieking laughter when she tells her that she’s watched a film in a foreign language.

The cinema is deserted and Jinkx occupies herself by running her hand up and down Trixie's thighs. She pinches the rolls of fat that gather around her stomach when Trixie sits down, pokes her fingers into the pockets of Trixie's jeans. 

Trixie keeps her eyes steadfastly on the screen. A woman stands on a balcony, smoking morosely. 

Jinkx winds her arm around Trixie's shoulder and pulls her in. She nuzzles through Trixie's hair and whispers, "I want you," into Trixie's hair. 

Jinkx’s breath is hot, and she strokes her index and middle finger meaningfully over Trixie’s thigh.

Trixie hisses, "Not here. There's people." 

"They're sitting in front of us," murmurs Jinkx.

"The projectionist isn't," Trixie reasons. 

The blue light of the film flickers over Jinkx's face, and Trixie sees the way her red lips curl in a smirk, "He'd probably love it." 

"No," Trixie says firmly.

Jinkx’s rolls her eyes back in her head and performatively throws herself back against the cinema’s red velvet seats. It creaks loudly, then Jinkx seems to shoot down a few inches. Jinkx grips the arm-rests for dear life, and neither of them can hold their giggles in. 

When Jinkx eventually manages to calm her laughter she whispers to Trixie, “I’m going to get my forty winks in then, if you’re not going to let me under that skirt of yours. _Some_ of us have just come off a week of the night shift.” 

Jinkx closes her eyes and rests her head on Trixie's shoulder. Trixie is tempted to wake her up and force her to watch the shit film she suggested they watch. She’d rather go and see _The Breakfast Club_ again, which has the advantage of having Molly Ringwald in it. But then Jinkx’s head gets heavier and her eyelashes start twitching and Trixie is content to watch her sleeping face while the film plays out. 

Jinkx drives Trixie home. The windows of the house are dark. Mrs Omar will have gone to bed hours ago. 

Jinkx leans across the gearstick to kiss Trixie goodnight. Jinkx still seems a bit sleepy. Her eyes are heavy lidded, and her mouth moves slowly against Trixie’s. She hums contentedly into Trixie’s mouth when Trixie deepens the kiss.

Trixie can smell the sickly cherry scent of Jinkx's air freshener hanging off the mirror, but if she presses her nose to the side of Jinkx’s neck she can smell something earthier and more intriguing. 

Trixie tugs sharply at Jinkx’s hair to see if she can provoke a livelier response. 

It works. Jinkx pushes Trixie back into her own seat and tugs at the neckline of Trixie's top. Her breasts are far too big to tug out of the fabric entirely, but Jinkx sucks and bites on what she can reach. Trixie groans and grabs the back of Jinkx's hair, pushing her head further into Trixie's cleavage. 

Jinkx lets go of the flesh in her mouth with a wet pop. Her lipstick is smeared from the tip of her nose to her chin, and her cheeks are flushed and shining. 

"That feels good. Do it again," Trixie instructs. 

Jinkx obeys, pulling the other breast out and giving it the same treatment. Jinkx reaches down between Trixie’s legs and lays the flat of her palm over the front of her skirt. She ruts against it for a few seconds, but then circles Jinkx’s wrist with her fingers. She pulls Jinkx’s hand away.

Jinkx laughs hoarsely and scrubs her hand across her face.

“I have to go,” Trixie murmurs.

“Of course you do,” Jinkx sounds resigned.

It’s almost enough to make Trixie take pity. But then Trixie notices Jinkx’s white knuckles on the steering wheel, and it steels her determination. 

She kisses Jinkx once more on the lips, springs lightly from the car and shuts the door quietly. Jinkx gives her a light wave as she drives slowly back down the deserted street. 

When Trixie gets back up to her room, she gets herself off. She pushes her fingers into the bruises that Jinkx has sucked into the skin of her breasts. They don’t hurt, but she likes the way the blood is puddling just under the skin. They’ll be glorious tomorrow, a sunset of yellow, red and purple. 

Trixie twists her own nipples, imagining Jinkx's lopsided smile as she does. She pictures bringing herself off in front of Jinkx. She'd make her wait at the foot of the bed while Trixie pushed her breasts together, kneaded them, took both of her nipples in her mouth at once. She’d make Jinkx squirm with wanting her.

***

For their next date, Trixie asks Jinkx if she will take her back to that Indian restaurant. Trixie orders the same as Jinkx, plus a separate plate of the delicious fried onion balls that she learns are _bhajis_. She eats so much that she can’t even contemplate walking home.

Jinkx invites Trixie back to her house for an after-dinner drink and Trixie accepts, if only for somewhere to sit down until she feels a little less full.

Jinkx’s house is beautiful. It's tall, with red bricks, gabled windows and an arched doorway. Trixie loves the stained-glass door and its huge brass door-knocker. 

Jinkx swings that door open to reveal a second one in a tiny porch lined with finely decorated ceramic tiles. Trixie traces her finger over their floral pattern while Jinkx fumbles with the lock of the second door.

When Jinkx finally manages to let them in, Trixie is awed by the large wooden staircase that dominates the hallway. 

Jinkx leads Trixie through to her sitting room, where everything is blessedly dark. There are a forest of pot-plants in front of the window, obscuring almost all of the dusk light. Two of the walls are a deep terracotta colour, and the other two are covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The shelves groan with books, some are squashed in sideways over the top of other books, while others seem to be shelved two-deep. 

Jinkx’s sofa is large and soft, cluttered with embroidered and tie-dyed pillows. Next to it there’s a heavy wooden coffee table strewn with yet more books and wine glasses, each one marked with lipstick and with half an inch of red wine dregs at the bottom. 

Trixie takes in the grand fireplace that Jinkx has surrounded by candles of every height. Wax has dripped and cascaded all over the hearth to make rough patterns on the tile. Everywhere Trixie looks, she notices something new and eccentric crammed in a corner or piled on top of something else. There’s a crystal ball on a stand on the mantlepiece, a music stand overflowing with sheet music stacked in the corner, and even a half-finished painting slotted in behind a chair. 

Jinkx doesn’t apologise for the mess, something which would mortify Trixie’s mother. Instead, she airily crosses the room and starts lighting the candles. She rummages in a drawer for two sticks of incense, lights them and then shoves them into a holder buried somewhere on the mantlepiece. 

Trixie sits down at the edge of the sofa while Jinkx bustles off to the kitchen. She returns carrying a tea tray laden with a heavy looking silver tea pot, a silver dish and two small, clear glass cups. 

Trixie was expecting it to be Tetleys or PJ Tips, but the tea smells strongly of fresh mint. When Jinkx pours her a cup it’s scorching hot, unbelievably sweet, and a tiny rogue mint leaf floats across the surface. 

Jinkx offers her the silver dish, filled with cubes of Turkish Delight. They’re different from the type Trixie’s grandmother used to buy, covered in powdered sugar rather than milk chocolate. Trixie takes a bite of one, but the rose flavour just reminds her of products they sell at work. She’s eaten far too much already, and she tries to subtly hide the rejected sweet behind her glass of tea. 

“Go on, unbutton your jeans,” Jinkx urges, “I’ll take my belt off if you do.” 

Trixie laughs and does as Jinkx suggests, giving her stomach a bit more room. She grabs a cushion to hold over her belly and breathes out a bit more deeply. Jinkx unbuckles her belt and strips it out of the loops, throwing it carelessly to the floor. She also lets her stomach go a little, until it strains the buttons on the front of her dress. 

They sip the mint tea and smoke in companionable silence. Eventually, Trixie feels a little less like she’s going to burst. 

Jinkx heaves herself to her feet and puts a record on. It looks like Jinkx has a new HiFi entertainment system with a turn-table, a cassette player and slots for compact discs. They cost thousands of pounds, and Trixie wants to take a closer look. Before she can, the music starts and Jinkx holds her hand out to her. Trixie gets to her feet, buttoning her jeans back up with one hand. 

The record crackles at first, but then the call of a solo trumpet fills the room. The singer’s voice is raspy and morose. She sings each phrase slowly, almost conversationally. The song’s narrative unfurls, and Jinkx wraps her hand around Trixie’s back and pulls her close. Jinkx is still wearing her heels but Trixie is in her socked feet. Like this, she’s an inch or two shorter than Jinkx. She can rest her temple against the fat of Jinkx’s cheek. Trixie darts a glance up into Jinkx’s watchful green eyes. 

Jinkx dances her around the rug. The record moves on. A snare drum keeps a soft, slow rhythm and Jinkx sways her hips against Trixie’s in time with it. The singer’s voice is beautifully mournful. Trixie feels so warm. Trombone slithers down Trixie’s spine and Jinkx moves her leg in between Trixie’s thighs, sawing it back and forth. Trixie moans softly and presses down a little against Jinkx before she can stop herself. Their feet come to a halt, but they keep moving their hips against each other. 

Jinkx leans in to Trixie’s ear and whispers, “Did you know Billie Holiday was bisexual?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Trixie breathes back. 

Jinkx continues to lead Trixie around the living room, whispering to her about Billie Holiday. She knows so much. She tells Trixie about her early childhood, moving to New York, disputes with her record label, segregation, drugs and financial mismanagement. Her voice is plummy and over enunciated, and it fills Trixie’s head until she’s dizzy. When Jinkx makes herself laugh she tosses her hair and chuckles like she’s breathing backwards, an awkward ‘he-he-he’ sound. Jinkx’s perfume is spicy and heady and Trixie doesn’t know how she got so knowledgeable. It’s making Trixie want to be reckless, make promises she can’t keep. 

Jinkx brushes her lips against Trixie’s, waiting for Trixie’s lips to part underneath her own before she deepens the kiss. Her breath is warm and smells of a strange mix of rose, mint and garlic. Trixie wants to give up. She wants to throw herself to the floor and pull Jinkx down after her. She wants to strip off her clothes and beg Jinkx to touch her. She wants to sob into Jinkx’s mouth and wrap her legs around Jinkx’s waist. She wants to apologise for making her wait so long. 

Instead, she steps back from Jinkx and breaks the spell between them. The needle on the record skips, looping on the singer’s plaintive cry. 

“I should go home,” says Trixie, “I need to go home.” 

Jinkx gives Trixie another kiss and calls Trixie a taxi. They wait for it to arrive together and then Jinkx walks her down the path and into the car, closing the door behind her. 

Trixie doesn’t go straight upstairs to her room. Instead, she creeps into the cold, dark living room. Mrs Omar has a small collection of old records on the shelf behind her wedding photos. Trixie moves the frames gently aside and takes the records out. Trixie kneels on the carpet and sorts through them until she finds a record called _The Sound of Jazz_. Trixie figures that it will be enough to recreate the mood. 

Trixie replaces the photo frame and sneaks the record up to her own room. She blows dust off the cardboard sleeve and fits the vinyl under the needle. She hurriedly twists the volume dial so that the music is barely audible, and she turns her light off. Trixie strips out of her clothes and lies back on the bed. The singer’s voice is rich and languid. Her hand drifts down between her legs and she imagines what might have happened if she had not asked Jinkx to call her a cab.

***

The next week, they do more or less the same thing. The restaurateur meets them at the door with a friendly, “Back again ladies? I’ll take you to your table.”

He seats them at the same table as last week and gets Trixie’s lager and Jinkx’s red wine before they can ask. 

“So, lovely ladies, are you sisters? Colleagues?”

“Sisters,” Jinkx answers immediately, “Though with different fathers.”

She darts a look at Trixie, “It’s a sad tale really. Our mother lived in Paris and was a…”

“- Ballerina,” finishes Trixie.

“Yes, and my father was a philosopher and…long distance cyclist. Trixie’s father was a mortician,” Jinkx invents.

The waiter gives them a skeptical look.

Trixie can’t help giggling at his dour face. She covers her mouth with the edge of her linen napkin, but she can’t stop her shoulders from shaking.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it ladies,” the waiter says. He slowly walks away from their table, giving them a brief, quizzical glance over his shoulder. 

They order onion bhajis, Trixie’s favourite, with soft round bread, a rich lamb and rice dish, and baked cheese coated in spices. 

Jinkx also recommends potatoes deep fried in batter and injected with a rich chili sauce. They are so hot that Trixie’s lips tingle and burn after she eats one. She slips her compact mirror out of her bag and checks her lips. She’s tickled to see that they look both redder and slightly more full since before she ate the potato.

“Look! Jinkx, I look like Mick Jagger!” She says, pouting at Jinkx. 

Jinkx giggles, “Mine are the same! Those potatoes are fiery!”

Jinkx invites Trixie back to her home again. She directs Trixie to take a seat in the lounge while she bustles off to the kitchen. Jinkx returns carrying her tray again, this time stacked with a tall glass cafetière and two elegant espresso cups. Trixie has never used a proper cafetière. She’s only ever had instant coffee, but she’s seen cafetières in the kitchen department at work. 

Jinkx sets them on the coffee table and drags out a deep box filled with vinyl records from underneath a table. She kicks it along the carpet, so that it rests at Trixie’s feet.

“Choose something to put on. Whatever you like,” urges Jinkx.

Trixie picks out the new Kate Bush album that they didn’t listen to last time. She pops it onto the player, adjusts the needle so it starts in the right place.

Jinkx pushes down the press on the cafetière. It smells strong and rich, and Trixie cradles the tiny coffee cup in her hand as they listen to _Hounds of Love_. She’s never been much of a Bush fan, but this isn’t half bad.

Trixie moves off the sofa and sits on the floor to flick through the rest of Jinkx’s collection. It’s very eclectic, everything from Blondie to Judy Garland to Nina Simone. 

Jinkx leaves her to it, and Trixie shuffles to settle her back against the sofa. She stretches her legs across the rug and holds Jinkx’s record collection on her lap. She’s giving Jinkx commentary on her opinions, shouting her verdict out to wherever Jinkx has wandered off to. She assumed that Jinkx has gone to refill the coffee pot or find something else for her to look at.

Jinkx has been gone for a while, and Trixie is just about ready to give up and go and look for her when she hears Jinkx drawl, “Hello darling,” from the door.

Trixie doesn’t look up immediately. She assumes Jinkx will cross the room to sit on the sofa Trixie is leaning against. But when Jinkx doesn’t move, Trixie looks up. Her jaw drops. The records fall from her numb fingers and scatter on the carpet.

Jinkx is wearing a sheer black dressing gown, belted at the waist. She pops her hip and presses her thighs together, twisting one ankle outwards. Jinkx is holding on to either side of the door frame, full flowing sleeves dripping from her wrists. The sleeves are trimmed in feathers, and the long train trailing down the hallway is edged with feathers too. It takes Trixie a few seconds before she realises that Jinkx is wearing nothing underneath.

The sheer material doesn’t obscure much. Trixie can see the shape of Jinkx’s nipples, the curve of her stomach and the dark shadow of what’s between her legs.

She looks amazing. A living, breathing screen-siren.

“Fuck,” says Trixie, her eyes bugging out of her head.

“I was fed up of being given the run around by a 23-year-old,” Jinkx purrs.

“Fuck. You look…,” Trixie repeats herself.

“Yeah, “Jinkx smirks, “I do.”

Trixie’s mouth is dry as she stares at Jinkx’s body.

Jinkx runs her hands down her side, and Trixie kneels up on the carpet. She’s ready to kneel, to crawl, to do whatever it takes. 

All of her cunning, her ambivalence, have vanished like a cheap magician’s trick.

“Trixie darling. Are you going to be a good girl and come with me to the bedroom? Or are we going to sit here and talk about the pop charts all night?”

Trixie clambers to her feet. She’s graceless, pressing hard on her thighs to push herself up from the floor and then overbalancing slightly. She hauls herself up the rest of the way using the arm of the sofa.

In contrast, Jinkx is extremely graceful. She sashays down the hall and Trixie follows, hypnotised by the round shape of her arse. Jinkx sweeps the long train of her dressing gown behind her, and Trixie stumbles over her feet to avoid stepping on it. 

Trixie follows Jinkx to her bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it’s Bohemian, cluttered and dimly lit.

Jinkx’s bed is a large wooden four-poster frame, with thick navy curtains hanging around it. They look almost Indian, with elephants and roses embroidered over the fabric.

Next to the bed, there is a vertiginous stack of thick paperback books and a bedside cabinet covered in dangly earrings and beaded necklaces.

The spicy, heady scent that permeates the whole house is strongest in the bedroom, and it fills up Trixie’s head, clouds her senses.

Trixie undresses as quickly as she can, leaving herself in a bra and pants. She’s made good choices in her underwear. Her bra is a black silk balcony that pushes her tits up and together, but also lets a little of them spill over the side. Her pants are matching black silk with red flowers on the hips.

Trixie is not self-conscious about her body. When Jinkx has been so enthusiastic about getting her hands on it, how could she be?

Jinkx sinks down onto the bed, taking time to spread the sleeves and train of her gown over the bed sheets.

“What a pair we make,” Jinkx says, “It’s enough to make me want a mirror on the ceiling.”

Trixie flushes at the thought of it.

Jinkx pats the space on the bed next to her, and Trixie slides on next to her. Jinkx leans in to kiss her, and Trixie can’t help humming with satisfaction into her mouth.

Jinkx smells delicious, a spicy and exotic fragrance that makes Trixie think of trips to far flung places. And yet, her kisses are familiar to Trixie now. She feels comfortable knowing when to push, and when to pull back and let Jinkx take the lead.

Trixie breaks away, “Let me…”

Trixie reaches for the tie of her gown and pulls the knot open, unwrapping Jinkx from the ephemeral garment. 

Jinkx’s skin is pale and creamy. Her breasts are large and soft, falling either side of her chest. Trixie is startled by the colour of her pubic hair, it’s so vividly red, so vibrant.

Jinkx watches Trixie watching her, eyebrow cocked.

“You getting your fill there?”

Trixie gets an abrupt flash of the way Katya had asked her, _’Are you getting your fill?’_

Trixie’s face must have shown something of it, because Jinkx sits up, her face changing from Jinkx-the-seductress to Jinkx-the-nurse.

“Trixie, are you alright?” Her eyes are watchful and astute.

Trixie nods, “I just thought of a time when I thought I might never do this again. I’m glad that I am.”

Jinkx wraps her hand around Trixie’s wrist. She says seriously, “I’m glad too.” 

She waits a beat and adds, “With those tits you’d have been a big loss to lesbianism.”

Jinkx laughs deeply, all the way from her belly.

Trixie stiffens at first. But then she looks at Jinkx’s crinkled eyes and scrunched nose, and she kisses her instead. 

They kiss long and slow until Trixie is moaning into Jinkx’s mouth. Heat is building between her legs, nipples hard against the silk of her bra.

Jinkx is moaning too, pulling at Trixie’s hair. Trixie can feel the rumble of it against her body.

Jinkx pulls back, “Let me make you feel good.”

Trixie reaches behind herself to unhook her bra and she grins at Jinkx’s face when her breasts fall out of her bra with a tiny bounce.

Jinkx is relentless in the way she explores Trixie’s body. She takes great handfuls of Trixie’s thighs, Trixie’s stomach, Trixie’s breasts. She bends down and licks and sucks at them too, humming against Trixie’s skin. Every time she lifts her head back Trixie can hear some cut off word of praise, of admiration.

Trixie can’t keep still. Her hips are twisting in the sheets, hands dancing between clutching at her own hair and clawing at Jinkx’s back. She’s whining helplessly, barely even able to draw breath to speak. Jinkx draws Trixie’s pants down her thighs, urging Trixie to bump her hips up the up so that she can pull them down and cast them off.

Trixie is almost ashamed of how sodden they must be. Jinkx must notice how damp they are, how heavy with her wetness.

She feels slippery and swollen, her wetness sliding down between her labia and on to Jinkx’s sheets.

“Oh! Trixie, darling,” Jinkx breathes, “Look how wet you are!”

She brushes her fingers through Trixie’s wetness and Trixie wails, jerks her hips to follow Jinkx’s hands.

Jinkx laughs down at her. She rubs her knuckles over Trixie’s mons until she screws her eyes shut and makes another ridiculous noise.

“I’ve been thinking about licking you since our first date, “Jinkx smirks.

Trixie whimpers.

Jinkx openly laughs at her again, “I have.”

Jinkx presses one finger into her, and it slides in to the hilt right away. Trixie is so wet and ready that she can barely feel Jinkx’s slender finger. There’s no friction at all, it just serves to remind Trixie that she’s desperate for more. Jinkx crooks her fingers upwards and presses something that makes Trixie’s pussy flutter, her eyes roll back in her head.

“You want me, don’t you?” Jinkx scoffs.

Trixie whimpers, “Yes, yes I do.”

Jinkx hooks Trixie’s legs over her shoulders and bends forward, buying her face in Jinkx’s tongue is so hot, so electric, that she yells as it makes her first swipe up her vulva.

Jinkx is proficient, merciless. She draws shapes over Trixie’s clit so that she can never get used to any rhythm. She speeds up and slows down, grinds the flat of her tongue down into Trixie and then lifts up so that Trixie has to whine and chase her. Trixie ends up with her hands twined and twisted in Jinkx’s bed sheets. 

She grinds her hips into the air and whines high in her nose. Trixie knows that she’s probably red and blotchy all down her chest, and her breasts are bouncing gracelessly on her chest as she desperately tries to catch her breath.

Jinkx rubs her thumb firmly over the pucker of Trixie’s arse, on the line between discomfort and pleasure. But Jinkx only ever slides her slim index finger into Trixie’s cunt. She tries to clench down around it to make it feel more substantial, and feels almost embarrassed at the way her wetness seeps out around it.

Her body quakes as her orgasm barrels towards her. She can’t help kicking her legs against Jinkx’s back.

Jinkx seems to read Trixie’s desperation and moves to a regular rhythm, a steady pressure. Trixie could weep with gratitude.

When Trixie’s orgasm hits her, she tenses up, stomach muscles shuddering as she curls over herself. She can’t think. Can’t vocalise. Tiny white stars speckle her vision.

Jinkx keeps her tongue flat and steady until Trixie relaxes and falls back on Jinkx’s pillows.

Jinkx sits up, smirking as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Well, darling, it seems as though you enjoyed that,”

Trixie reaches out and pulls Jinkx up to her. She tugs at the bedsheet until she can fold herself and Jinkx beneath them. Post orgasm, she feels languid and satiated, her limbs relaxed and eyes heavy. She kisses Jinkx and tastes her own salty tang off Jinkx’s tongue.

Jinkx’s curves feel luxurious against her own, and she pushes out her own sweaty chest to rub against Jinkx. She looks down and is delighted by the sight of their breasts sliding against one another that she leans down and takes Jinkx’s nipple in her mouth and sucks firmly. She feels giggly, dreamy, caught up in a glowing bubble.

Jinkx moans low in her throat.

“Trixie -baby – you’re going to have to repay the favour now,” Jinkx’s voice is hoarse.

Trixie trails kisses down Jinkx’s body, meandering from one side of her chest to the other.

Jinkx is restless, pushing a little at Trixie’s shoulders. 

When Trixie finally gets down to Jinkx’s pussy she’s taken with how pretty it is. It’s messier than her own or Katya’s, but the pink of her labia next to the vibrant orange of her bush is gorgeous, like a two-tone rose. Trixie brushes her fingers through Jinkx’s hair, and Jinkx’s hips shudder underneath her.

Jinkx’s labia are already wet and swollen. Trixie gently parts them a little, so she can get a better idea of where to focus her efforts. Jinkx’s clitoris is small, nestled under a hood that swamps it. As Trixie looks at her, she nuzzles the tip of her nose against her clit.

Trixie sucks the soft tip of Jinkx’s labia into her mouth, and Jinkx trembles. It takes her a few licks to adjust to how sensitive Jinkx’s clit is. She acquaints herself with the hard flesh below and above her clit, and the smoother slide down to her entrance. Her entrance isn’t really a _hole_ at all, but a sequence of folds leading inwards.

Jinkx is responsive. Trixie draws her tongue in swirling shapes, looping over and around each other like Celtic knots, and Jinkx twists the sheets in her fists. Trixie flicks her tongue and Jinkx’s hips levitate clean off the mattress, mouth open in a silent shout. 

She feels at home between Jinkx’s legs. When she feels confident in her rhythm, she moves her hands from their firm grip over Jinkx’s hips. She lets them wander over her thighs and calves, which are strong and firm from patrolling the wards. She squeezes her fingers into Jinkx’s arse and presses her knuckles into Jinkx’s stomach.

Jinkx’s noises rise in pitch and fervour until she’s babbling, grabbing her hands in Trixie’s hair.

“Ooh, fuck, Trixie. Don’t stop. Don’t – Fuck. Baby. Please.”

Trixie smiles into Jinkx. She’s wetter than ever. It’s dampening Trixie’s cheeks, and she darts her tongue down to Jinkx’s entrance to get more of it.

Trixie presses on. Her tongue aches and her jaw feels stretched. She feels like she needs to wrench it just a bit further to pop something back in place. She’s excited to feel Jinkx come. 

Trixie hugs her arms around Jinkx’s legs, passes her fingers over the sweaty back of Jinkx’s knees.

Trixie wonders what would happen if she stopped. If she sat back and watched Jinkx squirm. If she moved up to kiss her nipples and then kissed her way back down to make love to Jinkx’s mouth with her vulva again.

But when she looks up at Jinkx’s gritted teeth, she buckles down and licks in tight circles until Jinkx comes with a yell.

Jinkx pulls Trixie up on to her chest, laughing into Trixie’s curls.

Their legs are twisted together, hands still exploring each other’s bodes. They kiss slowly and gently until Jinkx extricates herself, kissing the bridge of Trixie’s nose when she furrows her brows.

“Don’t go,” Trixie whines.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Jinkx soothes.

Jinkx wraps her translucent gown around her and pads off. Trixie makes herself comfortable in Jinkx’s bed, shaking the pillows out and turning the duvet the right way.

When Jinkx returns she’s carrying a silver tray with two flutes of champagne, a little dish of strawberries and two cigarettes.

“Where the fuck did you get those from?” laughs Trixie.

Jinkx winks at her, “My fridge.”

Jinkx sets the tray on the bedsheets and clambers back on the bed. She hands one flute to Trixie and clinks her own against it.

“To us,” says Jinkx.

They stay up a little longer. Jinkx takes a mouthful of cool champagne and holds it while she takes Trixie’s nipple in her mouth. The cool wine makes Trixie shiver, and she swears she can feel the bubbles burst on her skin.

In retaliation, Trixie dips a strawberry in her wine, and slides it down Jinkx’s chest, following the path with her tongue. Jinkx pulls Trixie up for a kiss, starting the whole cycle again.

Trixie doesn’t remember falling asleep. She rouses herself in Jinkx’s bed when the sun is just barely shining through her curtains. The bed is empty, and Trixie stretches out across the mattress. She smiles to herself when she imagines Jinkx wandering back in with her coffee pot and a plate of eggs.

Instead, Trixie startles when Jinkx walks in wearing her blue nurse’s dress. She looks so different. Her make up is minimal, only a pop of red on her lips. Her nurse’s watch hangs upside down over her chest, and her white-trimmed lapels gleam with badges. Her waist is cinched with a tight, gold buckled belt. Jinkx holds a number of bobby pins in her mouth, and one by one she takes them out to pin her small white hat on top of her hair. Her hair has been smoothed and flattened beyond what Trixie would have thought possible after last night. 

“You off to work now?” Trixie asks. 

Jinkx nods, “Yes, sorry sweetie. I’ve got to run. I could give you a lift on the way to the hospital, and I’ll call you tonight?”

Trixie accepts the lift. She springs from the bed and bundles her hair in as tidy a bun as she can manage, pulling on last night’s clothes. It feels too sudden, too fast. Trixie wants a languorous morning in bed with Jinkx.

Jinkx passes her an apple and a cigarette, “That’s all I’ve got for breakfast, I’m afraid.”

On the way to the hospital Jinkx winds down both windows and cranks up the volume of her cassette player. She’s listening to something jazzy, and Jinkx’s fingers play an imaginary keyboard where they rest on the wheel. Trixie’s head hurts.

Jinkx lights her cigarette and puffs deeply, blowing her smoke out the window.

She improvises along with the piano on the cassette, “Doo be do be do be _daaah!_ ”

“Are you always this chirpy in the mornings?” asks Trixie, “I’m starting to reconsider.”

Jinkx answers in her plumiest accent, “Oh no, darling. Just when I’ve had a cracking shag.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welsh:  
> Nos da – Good night  
> Nadolig Llawen – Merry Christmas
> 
> Other things:  
> “makes my heart flutter in my breast; for when I look at you even for a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak,” and “a subtle fire has run over my skin,” are both from Fragment 31, by Sappho.

Jinkx invites Trixie to join what she calls her ‘literary salon’. As far as Trixie can tell, it’s just a posh book club. 

Trixie backcombs her hair and scoops it to the side to make a puffy ponytail. She chooses one of the black cocktail dresses that she’s amassed since moving to Cardiff. This one has a big silver bow around the waist and she spends a while getting the bow perfect, pinching the stiff, crinkly material into bouncy loops.

Trixie wraps Mrs Omar’s wooden chopping board in tin foil, and chops cheddar cheese and tinned pineapple into tiny cubes. She spears one of each onto cocktail sticks and stands them on end. It seems like the right thing to take along; she remembers her mum making cheese and pineapple for every birthday party that her and Mabli had when they were growing up.

When she gets to Jinkx’s house, Jinkx sweeps Trixie up in a kiss and tells her that she looks wonderful. She plays with Trixie’s bow and kisses along the exposed side of her neck. 

“I brought this for you,” says Trixie, holding out the chopping board.

Jinkx peers down at the cheese and pineapple sticks, “Uh, thanks. We’ll go put them in the kitchen.”

Trixie follows Jinkx into the kitchen and leans herself against the warm radiator, “Can I help?” she asks.

Jinkx grabs Trixie by the waist, “You help me by just being your own beautiful self. But I guess you could move those things on to the table for me.”

Jinkx has piled colourful ceramic plates with olives, oily artichokes and deviled eggs topped with fresh chives. Trixie’s plate of cheese and pineapple stay on the sideboard. It irks her, but she doesn’t want to disrupt what Jinkx has planned. She still sticks one of them in her mouth every time she walks past the plate, leaving the cocktail sticks in a messy pile next to the sink. 

By the time Jinkx is finished with lighting candles and setting out fat velvet cushions on the floor, the guests start arriving. Each time the doorbell sounds, Jinkx rushes to answer with joyful shouting.

When the whole group has finally arrived, Jinkx introduces Trixie as her _paramour_. 

She clasps Trixie’s hand to her own breast and declares, “Can you believe that she was hiding from me up the valleys all this time?”

The group smiles indulgently at Jinkx and offer their hands out to Trixie to shake. They’re an older crowd, the same age as Jinkx or older again. Many of them have glasses and grey hair, and they all seem to have jobs in serious fields like education, medicine or law.

Jinkx seats everyone at the long wooden table in her large kitchen and shuts off the main lights. The room is lit by a line of flickering Roman candles along the middle of the table. The candlelight bounces off the bottles of red wine and heavy crystal glasses along the table, giving the women a rosy glow.

In preparation for this meeting of the salon, Jinkx had leant Trixie her copy of The Colour Purple. Over the last week, Trixie has read a small portion every day on her lunchbreak. She’s never read a novel made up of letters between the characters before. It’s so intense that she can only read one or two letters at a time.

When it’s Trixie’s turn to contribute she talks about how it made her _feel_. The book made her sob. She often had to patch up streaks of foundation down her cheeks before she re-entered the shop floor. It made her feel both powerful and powerless, incandescent with rage. She talks about how much she was rooting for Celie and Shug, about how powerful she found the scene where Celie bathes her. She talks about the women like she's known them all her life.

Jinkx chuckles, “That’s a very naturalistic interpretation. Very good, Trixie. What do you think, Gloria?”

Gloria pontificates about the symbolism of the ‘text’, picking out small details that Trixie would never had remembered, and connecting them like she is cracking a code. Jinkx frowns with concentration as she listens, and makes little _Oh!_ noises as she circles words in her copy of the book. 

When the discussion part of the evening is over, Jinkx ushers the members of her salon into the lounge. She follows in with her silver tray, piled high with her cafetière and all six espresso cups. This time, there’s a saucer of carefully rolled joints balanced on it too.

Jinkx beckons for Trixie to sit on her lap. Trixie perches gingerly over Jinkx’s legs. She’s afraid of being too heavy for Jinkx to cope with, but Jinkx strokes her back until Trixie sits on her properly. Trixie reaches behind herself to pull her skirt down, nervous that she’s flashing her enormous arse to the other women in the room. 

Jinkx wraps her arm around Trixie like she’s holding a baby. She lights a joint for them both and holds it for Trixie to purse her lips around as Jinkx absentmindedly plays with Trixie’s hair. Trixie has only smoked cannabis a handful of times and the thick, earthy scent gets stuck in her throat. She coughs into Jinkx’s shoulder. 

One of the women smirks and says, “Needing some help with the ‘Green, Green Grass of Home,’ are we Trixie?” 

Jinkx hoots with laughter, jiggling Trixie up and down with the force of it, “That's a good one Diane! We’re helping Trixie find out ‘How Green Is My Valley’….her valley…Oh I don’t know. There’s a joke there but I’m too fucking stoned to find it.” 

The room fills up with smoke. It’s coming from the joints, tobacco cigarettes and the incense sticks and candles that Jinkx has lit around the room. The pungent mixture makes Trixie feel like someone is pressing on her chest.

She’s just about to ask Jinkx if she can get off her lap and take a few breaths of fresh air when Diane starts reading her poetry aloud to the room. She has a professional air, with a suit jacket and utilitarian glasses. Trixie supposes that she better just stay where she is, perched on Jinkx’s lap.

Trixie watches Jinkx while they listen. Jinkx closes her eyes, tips her head back and moves it in time with the rhythm of the poetry.

Trixie thinks it sounds similar to some of the poetry Jinkx has been reading to Trixie, featuring witchy women with raven locks and trembling hands. Some of the rhymes don’t quite work, and Trixie struggles to keep her face impassive as they land awkwardly.

***

When the members of Jinkx’s salon start making their way home, she loops her arm around Trixie’s waist as they wave the other women off down the drive.

“What did you think of Diane’s poetry?” Jinkx asks, as she shuts the door behind the/

“It was interesting,” Trixie ventures.

Jinkx booms with laughter, “It was a load of old shit, wasn’t it? Ethereal rhyming with delirium, please!”

Trixie fills the kettle, “It was ‘grace’ and ‘unlaced’ that almost made me lose it.”

“She was always writing when we lived together,” says Jinkx, stacking dirty plates in the sink to wash in the morning.

“When you were in nursing college?”

Jinkx chuckles, “No darling, we _lived_ together.”

“So she’s your ex?” Trixie asks.

She feels ridiculous, standing with a dirty ashtray in her hand while her ponytail droops lower and lower next to her ear.

Jinkx shrugs, “I guess so. We experienced life together as lovers, yes.”

Trixie slams the ashtray down next to the sink with enough force to make the dishes in the sink clatter. 

“ _’We experienced life together’_ …” Trixie repeats incredulously, “What kind of pretentious shit…? Why didn’t you tell me?” Trixie demands.

“Why does it matter baby?” Jinkx says in a tone that Trixie supposes is meant to soothe her. It incenses her. Next to the sink, there is a line of long-stemmed wine glasses. Trixie could easily strike her hand through the lot of them.

“I just feel silly, you know… Sitting on your lap like your bloody _dolly bird_ and…” Trixie deflates. She strips the scrunchie from her ponytail and slips it over her wrist, unsure what to do with her hands.

“I don’t want to row about this. I don’t want any unpleasantness to come between us,” says Jinkx decisively. She stands in front of Trixie and presses up on her toes to kiss the frown in the middle of Trixie’s forehead.

“Please,” Jinkx whispers, “Please don’t let any unpleasantness come between us.”

Trixie scrunches her eyes closed, “I’m sorry. I don't want any unpleasantness either.” 

She isn’t sure why she’s apologising. She feels stupid for getting annoyed, when the most mature thing to do is be relaxed and openminded. She bets that none of the other women at the Salon would be feeling so angry, so insecure. They’re all so much more worldly than Trixie. She needs to stop thinking like an simple girl from the Valleys, and start thinking like a smart woman from the city.

***

Trixie prefers the evenings where they are on their own.

She is content to sit at one end of the sofa while Jinkx sits at the other, both engrossed in their own books. As she reads, Jinkx digs her strong nurse’s fingers into Trixie’s feet. Trixie arches burn after her long shifts in the shop, but Jinkx has a way of relieving the pain by grinding her knuckles into the tendons along her soles. 

Jinkx likes to read aloud to Trixie. She pulls down slim volumes of poetry and enunciates clearly, projecting her voice all around the sitting room while Trixie shuts her eyes and tries to follow the verse. She introduces Trixie to Emily Dickinson, Amy Lowell, and Sappho. Trixie hasn’t read poetry since she was at school, it’s always seemed like too much of a hassle. But Jinkx is indefatigable. She reads poem after poem to Trixie, and after a while Trixie starts enjoying it. 

She pulls on Trixie’s cramping toes and reads, “...makes my heart flutter in my breast; for when I look at you even for a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak.” 

The poems must be sinking in, because Trixie sometimes thinks of the words long after Jinkx has finished reading them. She looks at Jinkx’s red hair hanging down her back in the shower and she thinks, yes, a subtle fire _has_ run over my skin.

When Jinkx has covered what she calls the ‘classics’, she starts lending Trixie books of poems by women who are still alive and writing. She reads Adrienne Rich, Eileen Myles and an Englishwoman called Carol Ann Duffy. 

Trixie is sceptical of the type of modern poetry that Eileen Myles writes. She doesn’t like the run on lines, the lack of punctuation, or the way they always seem like a loose collection of thoughts that anyone could have. Nevertheless, she is fascinated by her. She responds to the urgency and, like Rubyfruit Jungle, she likes the window into life in a bigger city. 

She composes a poem in the style of Myles and leaves it for Jinkx on a post-it note in the kitchen.

_I want to tie you_  
to the bannister rail  
above the stairs  
so you can  
look  
down  
at the aloe vera  
in the hall  
when I eat you out. 

The next evening, Trixie arrives at Jinkx’s house to find her waiting in the hallway with the post-it stuck to the tip of one of her long forefingers. Jinkx must have only just arrived home, she’s still wearing her blue nurse’s dress. 

“I was wondering if you’d like me to critique this,” Jinkx says teasingly, wiggling the poem on the end of her finger.

“I’d be honoured,” smirks Trixie. 

“It has a nice shape to it. I think the line breaks are promising,” Jinkx starts.

“Oh yeah?” Trixie advances towards Jinkx, stripping off her clothing as she does.

“Not bad. You could develop the use of punctuation. But I’ve been wondering about the symbolism of the aloe vera?”

“There isn’t any. You just have a plant in the hall,” Trixie says, brushing its plump, toothed leaves as she passes it. 

Jinkx perseveres as Trixie grabs her hip, “Yes. but you could have said my lamp, the mirror. Why the plant? Is it the association with healing? Or beauty?”

Trixie kisses her way up Jinkx’s neck. 

“I just like the fucking plant,” she whispers in Jinkx’s ear.

Jinkx guffaws and Trixie drags her up the stairs to the upstairs hallway.

“Get down there,” Trixie instructs.

Trixie runs to the bathroom and briskly strips Jinkx’s dressing gown tie from its loops, before running back to the top of the staircase. 

Jinkx sits with her back against the wooden banister, hands folded in her lap.

“Lie down, wrists against the wood,” Trixie insists, and Jinkx obeys.

Trixie straddles Jinkx’s broad hips to tie her wrists to the banisters. As Trixie leans over her body to tie the knots, she looks down at Jinkx’s silver fob watch and name badge reading, _Sister Monsoon_. Lust stabs through her.

Jinkx’s unruly red curls push their way through the wooden bars and hang over the edge of the landing, swinging over the hall below. 

Trixie is determined to tie her down properly. She settles her full weight on Jinkx and pulls the fabric as hard as she can around her wrists. The knots are simplistic, but soon Jinkx’s wrists are firmly lashed to the banisters. Jinkx attempts to pull at them, but only manages to draw a creaking noise from the wood.

Trixie has avoided looking into Jinkx’s mischievous face, for fear of losing her nerve. When she finally does, her breath hitches when she sees the half-lidded, subdued look on Jinkx’s face. 

“You’ve tied me the wrong way up,” Jinkx tries to taunt, but her voice just sounds breathy and defeated, “I can’t see the plant from here.”

***

It’s rare that Jinkx and Trixie get a weekend together, but after Karen puts Trixie in charge of the staff rota, she can make sure that the occasional weekends she gets off align with Jinkx’s.

When Jinkx has her weekends off, she likes to observe shabbat. Trixie had never heard of shabbat before, but she’s very happy to help Jinkx with it. When Jinkx leaves for work in the morning on Friday, she puts a joint of beef, a pint of stock and some sturdy vegetables in the slow cooker to bubble away while they’re both out of the house. 

They both return to Jinkx’s home on a Friday evening, and Trixie serves the stew into two bowls. Over dinner, Jinkx tells Trixie how when she was little, her family paid a neighbour’s child to turn on the oven and the lights after dark for them as they were not supposed to do it themselves. 

Jinkx changes out of her uniform and into her favourite clothes, often a green silk dress with a wide, round skirt. 

Jinkx asks Trixie to quickly wash her hands and brings out a basket covered in a white linen cloth. She places it on the kitchen table and then rests her finger over her lips. Trixie silently takes a seat at the table.

Jinkx says something in a language that Trixie doesn’t understand, and then removes the cloth to reveal two small plaited loaves with a burnished glaze. Jinkx slices the bread and dips it in an egg cup of salt. She hands it to Trixie to eat and does the same for herself.

Next, Jinkx pours two glasses of red wine, lifts them and mutters something else. The only thing that sounds at all familiar to Trixie is the way that, like Welsh, some of the sounds feel like they are made right at the back of the throat.

Trixie takes the wine and sips it, unsure whether or not she’s now allowed to speak.

Jinkx breaks the silence, “It’s alright. We can chat now.”

Jinkx tells Trixie about her loaves of bread as their fingers tangle over the table. She made it with her grandmother’s recipe, and she says that the smell is so familiar it makes her feel as though she’s a child again. She explains how every time she makes it, she pulls off a lump of dough and burns it deliberately. Jinkx rummages in the bin to fish out a charred piece of foil and unravels it to show Trixie the burnt remains of bread inside. 

Trixie has never seen anything like it before, and it fascinates her. She has a fleeting thought to start keeping a journal, so she can record every wonderous thing that happens.

When they do Shabbat together, Jinkx insists that all of Friday evening and Saturday are reserved for relaxation. By Saturday evening, Trixie is sure that she’s never felt so relaxed in her life. She selects a couple of books from Jinkx’s shelves and curls up on Jinkx’s sofa to read in companionable silence. 

Trixie looks around the room. In the hearth, dozens of candles flicker and cast shadows on the wall. A record slowly spins on the turntable. Jinkx is lost in her own reading; she is alternating between reading the Old Testament, and studying the next book chosen for the salon. As the evening draws in, Trixie pulls the blanket off the back of the sofa and over their knees. She closes her eyes and lets the sound of Ma Rainey’s singing and Jinkx’s steady breathing lull her to sleep.

On Sunday evening Jinkx lights another candle and says a prayer over a cup of wine. She makes Trixie take a deep breath over the candle and cup her hands around the heat. 

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” murmurs Jinkx, as she gives Trixie’s hand a quick squeeze. “It means a lot to me.”

Jinkx turns on the TV to see the news, and suddenly the world outdoors feels too loud and intrusive. Trixie can see why Jinkx likes to do this when she can. She quickly turns the news back off.

On Sunday evening, Trixie puts Jinkx’s white nurse’s hat and apron on a hot boil wash alongside the white tunic that Trixie wears for work. She adds a splash of bleach into the drum so that they come up a brilliant shade of white. 

When they’ve dried off on the radiator, Trixie irons the garments as Jinkx makes them both a packed lunch for the next day. Trixie takes great pride in the sharp edges she irons into Jinkx’s hat. Their two uniforms look good hung over the lounge door next to each other. 

“I don’t think my uniform has ever been sharper,” says Jinkx admiringly, “When I get to work they’re all going to be asking who’s been doing my laundry these days.”

***

Trixie lies on her back on her single bed at Mrs Omar’s house. She props her feet up against her quilted headboard to try and bring down the swelling in her ankles.

Jinkx has been working nights for the last few weeks. She works from 7pm to 7am, so by the time that Trixie has shut up the shop and made her way home, Jinkx is already leaving for work. 

When Trixie stays overnight at Jinkx’s house, she sometimes gets up early and cooks her something simple and hearty for her to come home to. It’s strangely endearing to see Jinkx wolfing down a cottage pie when Trixie is still bare faced and trying to choke down a Weetabix. 

Tonight, Trixie is staying at Mrs Omar’s while Jinkx is at work. She is just starting to feel a creeping sense of boredom when the telephone in the hall starts to ring. As she didn’t grow up with a phone in the house, it still seems like a novelty. 

The phone stands on a tall wicker table next to the front door, and Mrs Omar ostentatiously dusts it every Saturday afternoon. Mrs Omar doesn’t mind Trixie receiving calls, but she expects Trixie to write down every time she uses the phone to dial out, and cross-references it with her phone bill every month. 

Trixie lets it ring until she feels guilty, then finally gives up. She grunts as she struggles to swing her legs down from the wall.

Trixie sits down on the bottom stair as she answers, the cord uncurling as it stretches across the hallway. 

“Hi Trixabelle, I’m just calling to give you a bit of news,” Her mam’s voice sounds unusually subdued, but it’s still so sweet to hear her. 

“What is it? Is Dad hurt? Mabs? Lloyd?”

“No love, it’s good news really. Graham and Mabli are expecting a little baby, and they’ve decided to get married before it comes,” Her mum’s tone rises a bit at the end, like she’s trying to sound excited.

“Oh!” Trixie’s heart sinks but she tries to rally, “That’s lovely news. Graham will be a really good dad. He dotes on Mabli.”

Her mam’s voice turns icy, “He dotes on Mabli because she’s young, pretty and doesn’t know how to stand up for herself yet. But she will, one day. And I don’t know how _doting_ she’ll find him then.” 

Mrs Mattel clears her throat, “Sorry bach, I didn’t mean that. It’ll be lovely to have a little baby around. Everything has been a bit quiet since you left –“

Her mam’s voice catches and she breaks off. 

Trixie closes her eyes and scrunches them as tightly as she can, “I miss you, Mam.”

“I miss you too. Oh, cariad, don’t cry. One of these days I’m going to get the bus down to Cardiff and I’m going to walk into Howell’s like one of your posh old ladies and get you to doll me up!”

“Mam, I’d make you look like a film star. Classic red lip, with a shimmery green eyeshadow to bring out your eyes.”

“That would be lovely,” Her mam sniffs loudly, and they both sit in silence for a moment.

Trixie knows that it’s now or never. She stands up and checks that all the doors leading off the hallway are shut, and then squashes up to the wall as tightly as she can.

“Mam, I need to tell you something about why I moved to Cardiff, and why things didn’t work out with Lloyd.”

“Alright love, what is it?”

“I loved Lloyd. But when I met people from Lesbians and Gays Support The Miners I thought they were so amazing. Raising all that money, coming all that way to help when we don’t even know them. And I’d barely even been into Swansea on my own. I’d never done _anything_. But they were so brave.”

“They were very brave, cariad.”

“- And then I met someone.” 

“An English bloke?”

“Well, an English woman. But we’re not together. You can forget about her,” Trixie’s voice sounds more bitter than she meant it to.

She presses on before her mum can break in, “She’s not my girlfriend, she never was. But I couldn’t pretend everything was just the same because it wasn’t.”

Trixie’s mam only makes a small, soft, _go on_ noise.

“So I came to Cardiff and I love it, I love my job and I love living here. And I’ve met another woman, and it’s going well.”

“Duw duw, Trixie. Your dad will faint when he finds out one of his daughters is a lesbian and the other is marrying a Tory!” Her mother’s tone starts off sounding serious, but she’s laughing by the end. 

“Surely the Tory is worse, mam. You…you don’t mind, do you?”

Trixie’s mam sighs, “I might have, this time last year. But I think we all know better now. What is she like, this girl of yours?”

“Um,” says Trixie, trying to encapsulate Jinkx in a few words, “She’s a nurse and she’s very smart, very funny. We met through an ad in the back of a – er, a newspaper actually”

“Lovely,” her mam says, only slightly stiffly. 

“Mam, do you remember the lesbians that came down to Wales? Do you remember Katya?”

She hasn’t spoken the name aloud for months and it feels too big for her mouth.

“The Brummie?”

“She was the one, the one that I…” Trixie trails off, unsure how to finish.

“Oh right,” her mum sounds perplexed, “I thought that some of the uh – lesbians were quite striking. But I wouldn’t have picked her out for you. Tell me more about your girl in Cardiff, that’s more interesting to me.” 

Trixie pauses. There’s so much that her mother wouldn’t understand, from their weekends of Shabbat to Jinkx’s habit of pulling in herbs from the garden and stringing them up in the doorways. Jinkx has tarot cards and sometimes she flips some over for Trixie and tells her that she must _dive into her shadow self_ , or to _spend some time reflecting after a period of rebirth and renewal._ Jinkx sometimes gets blinding headaches that send her to her bed for days, and when Trixie tiptoes into her blacked-out bedroom she finds Jinkx clutching an icepack to her face, mumbling nonsense. 

“Um, she’s English. She’s ginger. She went to Cambridge and she loves reading and she’s been lending me all these books and she likes my cooking…”

“Well that’s lovely! I’ll look forward to meeting to her when I come down to Cardiff, or, er, well. Whenever you’re ready.”

Trixie lets her hands unclench for the first time since the beginning of the call. Her knuckles are sore from where they’ve been gripping the receiver. 

“Thanks Mam, you’re the best,” Trixie tries to put all of her feeling into the words, but it’s not enough. She wishes more than anything that she was pulling her into her chest for a tight hug.

“I better go, bach. Your dad will be home in a minute and I should get tea on. Can I tell him what we’ve discussed?” 

“Yes. Especially if it sweetens the blow of ending up with a pig in the family.”

Her mum laughs and tells Trixie she loves her again, before hanging up. 

Trixie sits on the step for a couple of minutes, letting it soak in.

***

In the weeks before Christmas, Jinkx celebrates Hanukkah. It’s something that Trixie only learned about briefly at school. She has a vague memory of colouring in a picture of some candles.

Jinkx worships at home on her own. She tells Trixie that she doesn’t feel the need to attend either of Cardiff’s two synagogues. Over the years Jinkx has worked at picking out the elements of her faith that hold meaning for her. She explains the story of Hanukkah to Trixie, how she connects to the story as a tale of resistance and survival against the odds. 

Trixie thinks she gets it. She remembers her childhood joy at the story of Christmas. As a little girl she could drive herself almost to tears by thinking about Mary going from inn to inn, the fragile little baby sleeping among the animals. It seemed to be a symbol of taking care of others, and not judging people because of their circumstances. Over time she became more frustrated at the difference between what was being taught at Chapel, and what she saw around her. She felt her faith sail away like a boat on the horizon. And yet a well-sung Christmas carol can still make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

For just over a week Jinkx starts every evening with lighting a candle and saying a prayer. Trixie likes walking towards Jinkx’s house and spotting the winking lights of her menorah in the window as she comes around the corner. 

Jinkx is unusual. Even in a city like Cardiff, even when it’s almost 1986, Jinkx is unusual. Jinkx must know that her neighbours probably call her some variation of _that lesbian Jew_ , and yet she puts her candles in the window for everyone to see. Trixie likes that very much. She likes to be seen with Jinkx; wants the neighbours to notice Jinkx’s new ostentatious, tall lover. 

Each evening of Hanukkah, Jinkx makes Trixie fried potato pancakes and fat homemade doughnuts that leave her fingers slick and shining with oil. Jinkx sits at her piano and sings songs in Hebrew, accompanying herself on the piano with the guidance of battered sheet music. Trixie sits on Jinkx’s sofa with her feet dangling in her mop bucket, half-filled with warm water and Epsom salts. She tries to sing the repeated refrain along with Jinkx, but mostly just splashes her feet in the bucket as she reads the newspapers.

***

Trixie has saved up enough money to buy a second-hand car. She doesn’t care what make or model it is, and when she sees a bright pink Triumph Herald with relatively few miles on the clock, she snaps her up and names her Madge. Madge is stubby and boxy, with headlights that poke up over the line of the bonnet.

Jinkx is working on every day of the Christmas period. She often jokes that being at Christmas, being a childless Jewish lesbian makes her popular with her colleagues. She seems to be covering everyone’s shifts. On some occasions, Jinkx has even been sleeping at the hospital in the small gaps between her shifts. 

Howell’s has been getting busier and busier, and Trixie has exceeded every sales target that she’s been given.

On Christmas Eve Trixie finally clocks off for the Christmas break. She gives Mrs Omar a lift to her son’s house, loads Madge up with her suitcase, and then drives to Jinkx’s house to say goodbye. 

Jinkx sends Trixie off to Onllwyn with a kiss. She says stiffly, “Give your parents my festive wishes, if they’re in a place of accepting them.”

Trixie gives Jinkx a sidelong glance, “I’m sure they’ll be very pleased.”

Trixie can’t get up the motorway quick enough. It’s already dark and the orange headlights on Trixie’s car can only light up the next couple of yards of the road. As she drives further up the valley, a swirling, freezing fog descends and cuts Trixie’s visibility further. Trixie leans close to the steering wheel and cranks up Madge’s radio as loud as it can go. The DJ has already played the Christmas number one twice in the hour-long dive, but Trixie is already ready to hear Shaking Stevens sing ‘Merry Christmas, Everyone’ again. 

The windscreen starts to spatter with something halfway between snow and rain, but Trixie just dances in her car seat as she urges Madge up the mountain. 

When Trixie parks outside her parents’ home her mam is standing in the doorway. She’s wearing her traditional Christmas apron and the lights in the hall are golden and inviting behind her.

“Trixie!” Her mam shouts, “Look at you in your pink car with your big hair! You look like a life size Barbie!”

The net curtains of the house next door twitch. 

Trixie shouts back, “Go inside Mam! This weather is stinking!” 

Trixie grabs the luggage from the boot of the car and runs to the house as quickly as she can. 

Every surface of the house seems to be covered in tinsel, and every door frame has a large sprig of mistletoe taped to it. 

Trixie’s mam ushers her to sit down in the living room. She pops a blanket over Trixie’s knee and fetches her both a cup of hot chocolate and a homemade mince pie. The base of the pastry is still warm, and Trixie bites into it immediately. She groans with joy at the taste of the brandy and fruit, cups her hand around her chin to catch the falling pastry. Trixie smiles around her mouthful and gives her mam a thumbs-up of appreciation.

Trixie’s dad doesn’t say much. He’s watching some black and white film on the television.

“You must be exhausted,” Trixie’s mother fusses as she fetches Trixie’s old slippers and sets them down by Trixie’s feet. 

“It’s been absolutely bonkers,” Trixie admits, “But we’ve met our sales targets, so management should be satisfied.”

Her mam raises her eyebrows, “And you won their Christmas competition as well, they must be so pleased with you!” 

“I hope so. I’ve just got to go in on Boxing Day and make sure we shift the rest of the winter stock before we get the new lines in.” 

Trixie gets excited when she thinks of the new collection they’ll be stocking in January. Trixie tries to describe them to her mam, but she looks a million miles away. 

Trixie perseveres until her mother finally just interrupts her, “I’m sorry love, but I have to tell you now or I’ll forget; Rhiannon called in earlier and asked if you’d be going to the Welfare Hall later on. I think there’s a group of them going down. Your father and I might pop by for one.”

Trixie feels nervous about heading down to the Welfare. She hasn’t seen anyone from that group since she left for Cardiff, and she’s sure that Lloyd will be going if everyone else is. But when her dad changes his grubby t-shirt for a clean buttoned shirt, and her mam takes her apron off and applies a fresh coat of lipstick, she’s swayed towards joining them.

She quickly pulls on her favourite dress of the Christmas season: a tight, knee-length black lurex dress with an off the shoulder neckline. She wears simple black heels and silly Christmas earrings that look like baubles, and then tips her head upside down to fluff up her hair.

***

The Welfare Hall looks the same as it has every Christmas in Trixie’s memory. Hefina must have instructed the committee to tape bright red tinsel around the bar and every ashtray. Gold foil garlands have been unfolded and stretched across the ceiling, punctuated by more foil concertinas that hang down and tickle people’s heads.

Trixie jumps when she hears a shriek. She looks up and sees Rhiannon running towards her. Before Trixie can even wave, Rhiannon throws her arms around Trixie’s shoulders.

“Trix! You’re back! I’m so happy! Come and see the boys and the baby!”

Lloyd is sat with the boys, at the same table where they always sit. Carly sits next to him, and Trixie tries to choke down the visceral distaste she feels. Carly is turned around in her seat, chatting to someone at another table, but Trixie spots the way her hand rests on Lloyd’s knee. Trixie meets his kind brown eyes and she feels guilty for thinking badly of Carly.

Aaron nudges her with his elbow, “How’s Cardiff, Trixie? I’ve heard there’s been a lot of _fishy smells_ around.”

One of the other boys sniggers and joins in, “Have you been down the pool much? Cardiff is supposed to have loads of opportunities for _diving_.”

She knows exactly what they’re getting at. She doesn’t dignify it with a response. 

Instead, she picks up Rhiannon’s son and cuddles him against his chest, cooing “Are you ready for Father Christmas?” into his tiny round face. He nods vigorously and laughs so hard he snorts, waving his chubby hands in the air. 

She moves to sit with Rhiannon and keeps Rhiannon’s son on her knee as he scribbles crayon across colouring book sheet of a reindeer. They talk about Trixie’s life in Cardiff, and as Trixie talks about the gay bars and the salon, Rhiannon’s eyes widen and widen. 

Trixie brings out two presents from her bag, one for Rhiannon and one for her son. She’s been saving some of the nicer lipstick and eyeshadow samples for Rhiannon, and she couldn’t resist a sweet-faced Christmas teddy from the children’s department for her son. 

“They’re only little. Please don’t –“ Trixie starts.

“Trixie! You shouldn’t have,” Rhiannon interrupts, “You’re too lush, you are.” 

Rhiannon squirrels them away in her handbag and leans over to give Trixie a quick peck on the cheek. 

“I didn’t get anything for Mark,” says Trixie, “Men are so difficult to buy for. I’ll get him a pint later.”

Rhiannon waves her away, “Don’t worry. He certainly won’t need any more of those soon. I’ll tell him you bought one in the morning, I doubt he’ll be remembering much of tonight.”

Culture Club’s ‘Do You Really Want To Hurt Me’ starts on the speaker. Trixie hasn’t heard this song in months, but it immediately makes her think of last year, when Lesbians and Gays Support The Miners came to visit. The night she first met Katya.

“I can’t believe they’re still playing this,” Trixie says before she can tell herself to shut her big mouth.

Mark overhears and makes a face, “I’m sorry if the music is better in Cardiff.”

Carly raises her head from where it rests on Lloyd’s shoulder. She skewers Trixie with her light blue eyes, “Where do you go out in Cardiff? My cousin lives there.”

Trixie thinks about lying. She thinks about giving the name of some bland, heterosexual nightclub just like the one they all go to in Swansea. She doesn’t.

“I go to The Tunnel quite a lot. Casablanca is a good laugh,” Trixie answers casually.

Casablanca is a seedy sort of bar down the docks, an old church converted into a den where couples of all nationalities and genders grind together, while a live band play where the altar used to stand.

Carly wrinkles her nose, “I don’t know those.”

Trixie tries to explain where they are in relation to the places she does know. Carly stares at Trixie with half-lidded, disinterested eyes and then excuses herself. 

“Right then!” One of the boys shouts, “Who’s in for another pint? Fuck – where’s Carly got to now? She was there a second ago,” He points at the empty seat next to Lloyd, and the empty bar.

Lloyd stands, “I think she’s just gone downstairs to bring the new barrel up. I’ll pull everyone a pint and just leave the money next to the till. Carly said I could do it before.”

“Ooh! Get you!” Shouts Aaron, and he punches Lloyd on the arm, “Good man.”

Lloyd strides off towards the bar, swinging up the barrier to get behind the bar.

Trixie follows him and leans the other side of the bar. She’s just about in the same place as where she just met Katya.

“How have you been doing?” Trixie asks.

“Not bad,” says Lloyd, “You look well. You look very glamorous.”

He gives Trixie one of those shy half smiles that he always used to give her just before he kissed her.

“My mam said that your mam told her you’d won some sort of prize for selling stuff,” he says.

Trixie shrugs, “It was just a little thing in the shop. You’ve probably dug a lot more coal than I’ve sold lipsticks.”

Lloyd gives he another smile and starts pulling another pint, “I’ve been doing more stuff with the National Union of Miners. They’re still not happy with Thatcher, and I’ve been going to the meetings and stuff. They’re actually pretty interesting.”

Trixie feels a swell of pride in her chest.

“So, “Trixie starts, “Everybody _knows_ now.”

Lloyd looks startled, “I only told Rhiannon. I swear,” He implores, “I had to. It was splitting me open. We went up London last summer to do that gay march. I do believe in rights for the gays. I do. But I kept on seeing girls like her. And I just thought, I could be settled down with a wife at home and a baby on the way if it wasn’t for _her._ ”

Trixie tries hard not to roll her eyes. Even before Katya, she would have never wanted to be settled at home raising babies.

She puts her hand over Lloyd’s on the beer pump, “Don’t worry. Mum is a big gossip. She’s probably the one who told everyone. She could gossip for Wales. I’ve got a little present for you,”

She takes the gift out of her pocket and places it on the bar.

She had spent a long time looking for a gift for Lloyd in the men’s department. But everything had been designed for yuppies, city boys. It was all leather business card holders, Filofaxes and novelty ties.

Then Trixie had remembered the way Lloyd used to scratch at his face after he shaved, and she thought about one of their moisturizers. It’s made for women, but Trixie has seen it soothe all types of skin. She bought it for Lloyd anyway, including a short note to say that it was for his face.

Lloyd picks up his present, shakes it, sniffs it and puts it behind the bar next to the crisps. Trixie has seen Lloyd shake and sniff presents every Christmas and birthday since they were fifteen. The familiarity of it makes her chest ache. 

“I’m glad things are going well with Carly. You deserve it.”

Lloyd’s mouth twists into a lopsided grin, “Thanks, mate.”

Trixie returns to the table, managing to carry four pints while Lloyd follows behind her with the rest.

Trixie sits down next to Rhiannon again. She’s put her son to sleep under their table, wrapped up in her coat.

“Do you remember when we used to be like that?” Trixie asks, pointing at the little bundle. 

Rhiannon sighs, “Yeah. I remember playing on the floor with our dolls after Sunday dinner, and then everyone having a bit of a sing-song.”

They continue to reminisce until one of the lads leans over and says, “Girls, we’re going to have a party at Aaron’s house. You coming?”

Trixie quickly says yes, but Rhiannon says, “Nah, I’ve got to take the baby home.”

“Why can’t Mark do it?” Trixie protests.

“I can’t ask him to babysit. He loves a Christmas eve drink,” Rhi says.

“But it’s not babysitting if it’s his kid! Tell him it’s your turn to go out.”

Rhiannon looks uncomfortable., “Trixie I don’t think I could do that…”

Trixie has a brainwave, “I know your parents have gone to bed, but mine are over there – “

She points at her parents drinking side-by-side, “They’ll look after him. We won’t be long, we’ll be back in an hour or so…”

Trixie's parents reluctantly agree. Rhiannon wakes the little boy up, gets him into his overcoat and tells him he’s going to have a hot chocolate with the Mattels.

“Will you do me up?” She asks Trixie, “I haven’t worn make up in ages.”

Trixie has her make-up bag in her handbag. Her complexion is different from Rhiannon’s, but she can still use her mascara, eyeshadow, lipstick and blush.

Trixie takes Rhiannon to the toilet and sits her down on the loo seat. She props her make-up bag up on the metal loo roll holder.

It’s a tight fit for them both in the cubicle, and the grubby white walls and harsh strip lighting aren’t very flattering on Rhiannon’s pink skin.

Trixie selects an electric blue eyeshadow and starts brushing it across Rhiannon’s upper lid.

The two women get giggly and giddy. The music from the main hall bumps through into the toilets, and it’s like they have got their own private party. Rhiannon asks her about the clubs and nightlife in Cardiff, she makes Trixie tell her everything about them.

“Trixie, you’re so pretty,” Rhiannon breathes, “I think you’re so pretty.”

Trixie bends to work more finely, she blends a shimmery gold shadow into the corner of Rhiannon’s eyes. She’s so used to getting close to her customers that she doesn’t even realise how near their faces are.

“I think we’re almost done…” Trixie intones.

Rhiannon parts her lips and leans forwards, pressing her lips ever so lightly against Trixie’s. They rest there for a second, and then she flickers her tongue over Trixie’s lips. 

Trixie lets Rhiannon’s lips rest on her own and opens her mouth to Rhiannon’s tongue for a second before she jumps back, bumping her hip against the loo roll holder. Her make-up bag clatters to the floor. Plastic cosmetic tubes roll across the bathroom floor. 

“Rhiannon, what – “

Rhiannon crosses her arms under her boobs, “Oh come on - “

Trixie cuts her off, “But I told you about Jinkx.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhiannon throws out tersely, “I thought we were just messing about. It’s what happens. Girls get drunk and mess about.” 

“Would you kiss a woman if you hadn’t been drinking?” Trixie spits.

“Of course not! I’ve got Mark and the baby and…”

Trixie takes a half-step back, the furthest she can manage in the cubicle, “It was a mistake coming back here, thinking that everything would be the same.”

Trixie turns and scrabbles at the cubicle lock. They’re pressed so closely together that she can practically feel Rhiannon’s knees at the back of her own. Rhiannon’s thighs are big, almost too big for the narrow cubicle, and Trixie gets the fleeting thought that she’d like to bite into them.

“Trixie. Don’t go. Please. I’ve missed you and I haven’t been out in ages...”

Trixie doesn’t relent, “I’m going home, but I’ll finish your face first. I was almost finished anyway. You just need a bit of lippy. Here, have mine.”

“Thanks,” Rhiannon mumbles.

“You go and have a good time. I’ll go home and help my mam with the baby. I never go to bed early anyway, so come back any time.”

***

“That was quick!” Trixie’s mam shouts as Trixie lets herself back in.

“Yeah, I didn’t feel like going to the party in the end.”

Her parents are watching telly, Rhiannon’s son stretched out between them on the sofa. He’s lying on his back, snoring a little, hands clenching and releasing above his head.

Trixie’s father is engrossed in what he’s watching and doesn’t say anything to Trixie. 

Trixie sits in the armchair next to them, hands worrying the wool of the blanket stretched across her lap. 

Just before midnight, the doorbell goes and Trixie startles.

“I’ll get it,” she says, pulling the sleepy boy into her arms. He’s heavy, like a sack of potatoes against her chest. His hands immediately latch on to her hair.

She holds him on her hip as she opens the door.

“Hi,” says Rhiannon. She’s a little wobbly on her feet, but in better shape than Trixie was expecting.

“I hope you had a good night. You better get this little man home before Santa arrives…” Trixie says, jiggling the boy. His head lolls on his shoulders, still half-asleep.

“Thanks. We did. Look Trix, you were right before. It was disrespectful to you and I should have never…” Rhiannon trails off as Trixie’s mam pops her hand around the door.

Rhi waves, “Hi Mrs Mattel. Thank you again. Have a merry Christmas.”

“Nadolig llawen, Rhi,” Trixie’s mam yawns, “I’m bushed. It’s bed for me, or Santa won’t come for me either!”

Rhiannon nods, “Nos da, nadolig llawen.”

“It was great to see you Rhi. Take care of yourself,” Trixie says. She tries to make her voice sound as warm as it can. 

As soon as Trixie’s mam shuts the door, Trixie seizes the opportunity to speak to her alone in the hall. 

“Mam,” she whispers urgently, “Is dad okay? He’s so quiet.”

Her mother sighs. She kicks the door to the living room softly with her socked feet.

“He’s not been the same since the strike broke. He’s a little lost. And with Mabli’s news and your…news. That’s a lot of change, at his age.”

Trixie frowns. She puts her hands in her pockets and takes them out again.

“He’ll come around,” reassures her mam.

Trixie goes back to the sitting room, where her dad is watching the same film. They sit in silence.

“You alright dad?” She asks.

“Yeah, I’m alright Trix. You?”

“I’m alright, dad.” 

On the screen a beautiful blonde starts unbuttoning her blouse. Her red lips are shining like an apple as she licks them lasciviously.

“What do you think of her then?”

“What -?” Trixie blusters.

“If that’s what I’m supposed to talk to you about now,” Her dad continues, talking around his cigarette.

The actress is down to her last button. Her clavicle gleams golden. 

“Uh, yeah. Then, er, I guess. She’s looking pretty good to me,” Trixie says.

Trixie’s dad gives her a lopsided grin, “I wouldn’t mind trading your mother in for one like that.”

Trixie shrieks with laughter, and it even raises a sly smile out of him.

“Get to bed, bach. Your mum will want you up and peeling sprouts by seven.”

Trixie makes her way to her room and lies on the bed. She stares up at the bare book shelves and splodges of Blu-tack on the walls where her posters used to hang.

She forgot to pack what she needs for her cleansing routine, and she can already feel her skin drying out after washing it with her mam’s bar of plain white soap. 

The cheap cider, Carly’s skinny legs and the argument with Rhiannon have turned her stomach, and she wishes that she had packed some of Jinkx’s rose and fennel teabags to settle it.

***

Christmas day starts early for Trixie. Before the sun even comes up, Trixie and her mam are shelling peas and peeling potatoes long. Trixie’s mam allows her dad a rare opportunity to sleep in. Trixie and her mam listen to a battered vinyl record of a church choir singing Welsh carols; they’ve listened to the same one on every Christmas morning Trixie can remember.

Trixie takes the alto part, lets her mam do the soprano. Her mum’s voice is still so clear sounding, it transports Trixie straight back to singing together when she was a little girl.

The rest of Christmas day is quiet and predictable. Trixie receives two pink mugs, a new notebook, pink floor mats for Madge’s footwells, and warm pyjamas.

Trixie’s mam hands her a paper envelope.

“This is for _her_. Er, your friend. You said she was a big reader. But I don’t know what she likes, see. It’s only a fiver, but that should get her a novel.”

“Thanks,” says Trixie, “That’s really generous. She’ll love it.”

“It’s more than she’ll get from her own family,” Trixie adds under her breath.

Trixie’s mam plays with the thin gold chain at her throat.

By four in the afternoon her parents are dozing on the sofa, their paper cracker hats askew on their heads.

Trixie passes the afternoon with a book, drinking sweet sherry over ice.

***

The next morning, Trixie climbs back into Madge and drive back to Cardiff.

Boxing Day at Howell’s is hectic. Old posh women and their sharp clawed daughters circle the discounted goods. They rummage through boxes and shout to Trixie, “I might buy this if it had another 20% off.”

Trixie presses her lips together and gives each of them a long, firm look before she says, “I’m not authorised to offer any further discounts until the 10th January.”

Trixie is sweaty and exhausted by the time she finally gets back to Mrs Omar’s house. It’s dark and cold when she arrives, Mrs Omar is staying with her son until the new year. Trixie pulls the curtains firmly shut, grabs a can of beer from the fridge and settles herself down in front of the telly in her new Christmas pyjamas. She sits unglamorously, with her legs spread and one hand down the front of her pyjamas playing with her pubes.

***

At the beginning of February, Trixie receives a letter from Mabli asking if she would like to meet in Cardiff for lunch. Trixie suggests the café in Howell’s, as she will be easily able to pop up there on her lunchbreak.

The cafe is on the top floor of the department store. It has a good view down onto Cardiff’s main shopping street and watch the coloured umbrellas floating down the street like lily pads. Trixie has heard that from certain seats, customers can see slivers of the castle and the park behind it. 

Trixie has always thought that the café was stuffy and overpriced, with teacakes and scones being sold for outrageous sums. However, her Howell’s ID card entitles her to a 50% discount, which is enough to persuade her to treat Mabli to lunch.

Karen lets Trixie take off her tunic five minutes before the official start of her lunchbreak, and she checks her hair and make-up in the mirror on the counter before she heads up to the fifth floor. 

Trixie buys them a pot of tea for two and two fruit scones with clotted cream and jam. Then she waits at the white canteen table for Mabli to appear. She feels sick as she watches the door. There’s no sign of Mabli at first, just pairs of old women with shopping bags and posh looking hats. 

When she arrives, Trixie spots Mabli immediately. She’s almost as tall as Trixie, and she’s already waddling slightly. The fastenings of her coat don’t quite meet around her swollen stomach. 

“Trixie! I’m so sorry that Graham and I didn’t get up to Onllwyn at Christmas,” says Mabli as she struggles to takes off her coat, “We wanted to, but you were only back for a couple of days and Graham suggested that we have Christmas in our own home because when we have the baby everything will change again.”

Trixie smiles, willing to concede the point to Mabli.

“It’s a lovely store,” says Mabli, “I can’t believe you work here. It’s so glamorous compared to Mrs Davies’ pokey little shop.”

It’s surprisingly amiable until Mabli brings up her wedding. 

“We’re going to have the wedding and the Christening at St Gabriel’s,” says Mabli.

St Gabriel’s Church is in the next village over. It’s not the same church as the one where their parents married, where they were both Christened and where their grandparents were buried. Trixie has never even been there, only ever driven past its grey tower. 

“Why?” Trixie can’t help asking, “Is that where Graham goes?”

“No, but it’s got a lovely church yard for us to have the pictures done. And the font is, like, really old. Medieval or Norman or something.”

Trixie is lost for anything to say. She’d always imagined that she and Mabli would get married in the one they’d been taken to since they were babies. They used to spend hours playing at being at brides in their gran’s house, bundling up old net curtains over their head. Something burns in Trixie’s chest at the thought that that neither of them will marry there. 

Mabli reaches into her handbag and brings out a swatch of turquoise fabric, “Our bridesmaids dresses are going to be this colour, with Diana sleeves and a lace trim.”

Trixie tries to school her face into a pleasant smile. As long as Mabli is happy with what Trixie is wearing, Trixie will make sure she seems happy on the day. 

Mabli reaches out and grabs Trixie’s hand, “Trix. I’ve asked our cousin Tirion and my friend Hannah from work to be my bridesmaids. And we’ve asked Graham’s brother's wife to be the godmother to this little one,” Mabli rests one hand on her bump and smiles serenely. 

“What the fuck?” Trixie can’t help blurting, “You don’t even like Tirion, and _Hannah from work_? I would never ask the girls in the shop – “ Trixie splutters.

Mabli interrupts, “It’s just Graham didn’t think it was, well, appropriate. We are getting married in a church…”

She trails off into silence, but Trixie can hear the words she’s leaving out loud and clear.

“Pull the other one Mabli. You’re knocked up. There’s no point getting pious now.”

Mabli flushes red with anger and casts around desperately, “I haven’t seen you in months and then mum calls and tells me you’re suddenly a lesbian now. I don’t even know you, Trixie. You might want to turn up with a shaved head and a _suit_ , I don’t even know.”

“What have mam and dad said?” Trixie asks harshly.

Mabli flushes an even deeper red, “They haven’t –. Well I haven’t asked. But they’re not happy about anything, basically.”

Trixie feels a deep stab of guilt that she’s not only depriving her parents of the chance to see their eldest daughter get married, but that she’s causing disruption to Mabli’s wedding too. Maybe it was selfish to say anything at all. She wishes she could learn to split herself in two, be Trixie from Onllwyn and Trixie from Cardiff simultaneously.

"Am I even invited?" She grinds out.

"Yes!" cries Mabli, "of course you're invited."

Mabli looks close to tears, her eyes are bugging out of her face.

"But I have to sit there and let everyone look at me and wonder why you've not picked me. I have to watch someone else holding my niece or nephew and promise to protect them."

"How can you promise that you'll protect them and keep them away from sin when we know you're sinning..." Mabli says.

"You're sinning too!" Trixie bellows. It's louder than she meant, and the women on the next table turn around to look. 

"These are all Graham's words, Mabli. I know it. And one day he'll leave you and you will regret this conversation. I know you will."

Trixie is pointing at Mabli’s face with a shaking finger by the end of her speech. 

Trixie scrapes her chair back and gets to her feet. She tries to grab her coat with one hand and push her chair in with the other, but she is too jangled to manage it smoothly.

“Trixie!” Mabli calls, “Trixie. Wait!”

Trixie glances over her shoulder. 

She’s struggling to her feet, baby bump getting in the way.

Trixie doesn’t look back. She walks faster. The sound of her high-heels echoes around the café.

She arrives back at her work-station and throws on her white tunic. There are no customers to be seen. The sideboards are gleaming white, but Trixie still grabs her polishing cloth and wipes over it quickly. She desperately pulls out each lipstick tester, checking that none of them have been worn down too far.

Trixie listens out for Mabli. Surely if she was going to come back to the counter, she would have done it by now. Trixie can’t help wondering, what if she does? What if she tells Trixie’s manager about their argument? 

Trixie tries to ignore the roiling feeling in her stomach. She checks the drawer of blusher to make sure that each shade is grouped together.

There’s no sign of Mabli. The shop is big, she could be in any department. She could have exited by a different door or be lying in wait for Trixie. But what if Mabli is walking back to her car, upset and in the rain. What if she slips or falls in the wet leaves? What if the stress hurts the baby?

Her manager interrupts her thoughts, “Trixie, are you alright? You look very pale.”

Trixie blinks, “Thank you, I’m fine.”

She takes one of Trixie’s hands, “You’re shaking. Look, there’s no one around. Go up to the office and take a break. You can use the phone on my desk if you want to.”

Trixie thinks about who she could call. She wonders if she could call Jinkx. Jinkx often jokes that everyone working at the hospital is, ‘mad, gay, or both’, but she’s never quite sure how seriously to take a lot of what Jinkx says. How could she introduce herself? Friend, partner, companion? Trixie doesn’t want to say anything that would put Jinkx’s career in jeopardy. 

She pulls the Yellow Pages down off the shelf and thumbs the pages for a while until she makes up her mind. She flicks to the Healthcare section and finds the switchboard number for the hospital.

She gets put through three different switchboards until she finally speaks to someone on the ward.

Trixie cups her hand around the phone and speaks quietly, “Hello, my name is Trixie. I’m a friend of Jin- er, Sister Monsoon. Would it be possible to speak with her for a few minutes?”

The woman on the line sounds calm, “Yes that shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll fetch Sister Monsoon for you now.”

Trixie hears her walk away from the phone, and she listens to the sounds of the ward while she tries to blow her nose as quietly as she can. 

Trixie hears Jinkx coming near the phone. Trixie can hear the clip of her shoes on the floor, getting louder and louder. 

“You’ll need to move out of my way, Sister Jenkins! I’ve got Judy Garland waiting for me on the line,” Her voice is unmistakable, larger than life, and it raises a small smile on Trixie’s face.

“Good afternoon Trixie, Sister Monsoon speaking! my dear bosom friend, how delightful to hear from you!” Jinkx booms. 

“Hi – “ Trixie starts. The relief of hearing Jinkx’s voice brings more tears to the surface. She can’t hide the way her voice gets squeaky or her long, wet sniff.

Jinkx’s voice sobers up, “Trixie what’s wrong? Where are you?”

Trixie tells Jinkx about the argument with Mabli. Jinkx listens patiently, only adding little _’Hmm’_ noises when Trixie takes breaths.

When Trixie is just about finished, Jinkx lowers her voice and speaks whispers reassuring things into the receiver. Trixie can’t help with snorting with laughter when Jinkx reminds her that her parents would, “Rather have just one lesbian daughter, than have ten dickheads like Mabli.”

“There you are,” Jinkx coos, “That sounds more like a calm breathing pattern. Well done, my girl. It’s water off a duck’s back, yeah? What is it? Tell me.”

Trixie rolls her eyes and tries to bite off a hangnail that has been bothering her all day, “It’s water off a duck’s back, Sister Monsoon.”

“What time are you finishing?” Jinkx asks.

Trixie squints up at the rota on the wall, “Seven-ish. I’ve parked Madge up by the canal so I can drive home.”

Jinkx hums into the receiver, “I’m supposed to finish at seven as well. Would you like to come over for your tea? I’ll cook.”

It sounds like heaven to Trixie.

***

Jinkx makes goulash with dense, cheesy dumplings floating on its surface. It’s the comfort food they’re both in need of, and after dinner they both recline at opposite ends of Jinkx’s sofa. Trixie rubs her thumb over the nub of Jinkx’s ankle while she flicks through the New Musical Express. Trixie had brought some of her own records to Jinkx's house for them both to listen to, but Jinkx has put one of her Judy Garland albums on instead. Trixie's own records remain where Trixie put them when she entered the house, in a pile on the coffee table.

Jinkx is reading February’s edition of the Womyn’s Liberation Newsletter. 

They always have fun with the personal ad page. Trixie’s favourite game is a version of _Blind Date_ that they made up. They will each pick out three personal ads and read them to each other, pretending to be Cilla Black, the presenter of _Blind Date._

When it’s Jinkx’s turn to be Cilla she slips effortlessly into the Scouse accent, asking Trixie, “What’s your name and where do you come from?”

She reads three ads to Trixie and Trixie picks one for her to have a ‘date’ with. They don’t have pictures so Trixie never actually finds out who she’d be dating, but it’s a simple sort of fun on a drizzly evening.

“You know,” Jinkx starts, “They should do a feature on us in here, an article titled ‘We Found Love, Or At Least Someone To Kill Time With, In The Womyn’s Liberation Newsletter.’”

Trixie snorts, “Yeah, maybe.”

Jinkx wiggles her toes in Trixie’s grip, “It would be sweet.”

“If you say so,” Trixie says absentmindedly. She’s reading the album reviews, weighing up whether to get the new album by the Pet Shop Boys or save her money for what Eurhythmics are rumoured to be releasing in a month or two. 

“It says here that they’re offering free bus travel up to the Gay Pride march in London,”

Trixie’s head snaps up when she hears London.

Jinkx doesn’t seem to notice , “At the beginning of June. It’s nice to know that there might be a whole gang of us this year."

“Yes,” says Trixie firmly, “We should do it.”

Jinkx looks a bit perplexed by her enthusiasm, “You’re up for it?”

“Definitely,” says Trixie, “Last year loads of the miners and the committee went to say thanks, because of that fundraising concert and everything. I’d just moved up here and I was so jealous when my friend printed out some of her pictures for me.”

Trixie leaves out the main thing she was jealous of; the chance of getting a glimpse of Katya again. Trixie guesses that Katya is the sort of person that anything can happen to, the sort of person capable of doing anything, but she hopes like hell that Katya is still in London. Still in London, still angry and still willing to go out into the street and demand change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is what I was hoping to have posted by Christmas...I did really well with that. 
> 
> But I'm about 8000 words into Chapter 10 (although it needs some revision) and I swear to God Trixie and Jinkx will be taking that trip to London.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely tall friend who explained to me where tall people put their legs in the bath!
> 
> One of the lines in this chapter is something that my auntie and her girlfriend wrote in our wedding guest book.
> 
> I've been told that the formatting might look a bit weird on this for some people. I'm so sorry about that. It looks fine for me on all my browsers and devices, and I've copied it into notepad and back to remove stray formatting. I'm not sure what to suggest other than copying and pasting it and/or trying to download it? I don't know if that works though, because I can't actually see the problem!!! This is driving me crazy because I'm a bit of a perfectionist... But I'm sorry, I wouldn't want anyone to think I was being lazy or sloppy with formatting!

**12th June 1986**

Jinkx and Trixie don’t travel to London on the mini-bus like everyone else.

Trixie wanted to go on the mini-bus. She was excited for all the women from Cardiff to travel to London in one big vehicle. She felt herself getting nostalgic for the chaos of travelling on school trips. She’d been excited to unwrap foil packets of squashed cheese sandwiches and break open enormous sacks of crisps and chocolate buttons. But in the end, Jinkx decides to drive them both to London in her messy bottle-green car.

They leave Wales before the sun has risen properly, it’s only a sliver of pink on the horizon. Trixie has packed them each a flask of tea and two rounds of sausage sandwiches with a generous splodge of brown sauce.

Jinkx says she doesn’t mind if Trixie dozes off while she drives, but Trixie is too excited to sleep.

Instead she watches the sky lighten as they sail down the empty motorway. She counts the little villages as they pass, the numbers of cows already awake and grazing. She watches out for the mini-bus filled with lesbians from Cardiff, but they must have taken different routes.

The other women had booked a dormitory room in an all-women hostel, sharing bunk beds and a block of showers. They’d stayed in the same place last year, and they were looking forward to seeing other women from around the country that do the same year-on-year.

As a surprise treat, Jinkx had booked them a romantic night in a hotel near Leicester Square.

Jinkx was born and brought up in London and she’s confident when she drives through the centre of the city. Trixie waits with the A-Z map on her knees, but Jinkx doesn’t even ask her to open it once. Instead, Jinkx talks the whole time that she’s driving, sharing anecdotes from her childhood with Trixie.

Jinkx drives past the National History Museum. It’s so grand that Trixie mistakes it for a Cathedral, and the glass windows reflect the bright morning sun into Trixie’s face.

Next, they pass Harrod’s, with its dark green flags fluttering against the blue sky. Trixie cranes her neck as the traffic moves, trying to get a good look at their windows. The historic department store is known as the gold-standard of window displays and Trixie wants to know how her windows at Howell’s compare.

Trixie is amazed at how central their hotel is, how grand it appears. There are potted lemon trees either side of the glossy black door, and boxes of pink geraniums hanging from the windows. 

Jinkx parks her car right in front of the door and Trixie helps her unload their bags on to the pavement. Jinkx hands the keys to a red-hatted valet, and he moves the car to the hotel car park while they check in.

Over the phone, Jinkx had asked for a double room, but when they get to the check-in desk the receptionist goes pale.

“I’m so sorry ladies. I’ve got you written in the diary as a double room, but of course you’ll be needing a twin.”

Jinkx leans in over the desk, “It’s okay, no worries. We are happy with a double. There’s no need to change it –.”

“It’s not a problem, madam” The receptionist says, “We’ve got plenty of twins!”

“I really wouldn’t want to make any extra work for you. We’ll take the double,” Jinkx projects an aura of warm but steely efficiency.

Trixie eyes the growing queue behind them and tugs on Jinkx’s sleeve. She whispers, “Just say yes. We can always push the beds together.”

Jinkx glances over her shoulder to the queue and snaps her eyes back to the receptionist. She says smoothly, “We’re honestly happy with the double. I wouldn’t want to keep these people waiting while you sort it out.”

The receptionist looks unsure, but hands over a key to Jinkx anyway.

The eyes of the doorman follow them across the foyer as the receptionist begins checking in the man and woman standing behind Trixie and Jinkx.

Their check-in is swift, and they catch up with Jinkx and Trixie by the time the elevator arrives to take them up to their room.

All four of them stand in the elevator together. Trixie can smell the woman’s hairspray and the man’s cheap aftershave. No one talks. The elevator chugs slowly upwards. Jinkx catches Trixie’s eyes in the mirror and crosses and uncrosses her eyes at Trixie, then pokes out her tongue and wiggles it back and forth in an obscene gesture.

The man and the woman stare straight ahead. Trixie doesn’t think they’ve seen Jinkx fooling about, but it still makes her snort with laughter.

The bell on the elevator finally pings, and the doors roll back. It’s a floor below where Trixie and Jinkx need to go, but the other couple get out.

As he steps into the corridor, he pauses before barking out ”Dykes”.

She doesn’t quite know what to do, but Jinkx yells “Breeder. Prick!” in time for him to hear before the doors roll shut again.

The woman’s heels accelerate as they tap down the corridor, and they both fill the lift with laughter at the thought of being scary dykes. Trixie hopes the sound of their laughter carries outside the lift shaft.

At the door of the hotel room Jinkx hands Trixie the key, “All yours, Madame”

The bedroom is almost universally peach, with only black lacquered furniture and tall vases of calla lilies breaking up the pastel creaminess. On a large desk, there’s a tray holding individually wrapped teabags, plastic pots of milk and a tiny kettle. 

The bath stands in the centre of the bathroom on dainty silver feet, and it looks like something from a perfume advert.

The double bed is piled high with peach pillows and blankets, and Trixie feels the urge to throw herself across it like a child. Trixie reminds herself that she’s not here to enjoy the luxury, she’s here to march. Trixie is excited to march. Her experience on the picket line has galvanised her. She’s willing to take on ten police horses, a hundred if she needs to. She’s excited to stand shoulder to shoulder with other queers.

Nevertheless, the idea of being naked in that enormous bed is far too tempting. Ideally, she’d lie with one of Jinkx’s nipples in her mouth and the cool breeze from the window blowing against her back.

She pulls Jinkx away from inspecting the mini bar and insists that she lie down on to the bed with Trixie. The bed is more blancmange-like than Jinkx’s firm mattress. Jinkx allows Trixie to move their mouths together, even allows Trixie to move her thigh in between Jinkx’s knees. Jinkx breaks off and Trixie’s lips stay moving, seeking out Jinkx’s.

“Come on, baby, we’ve got to go,” says Jinkx.

Trixie reluctantly pulls away, sits up on the bed.

Jinkx wore a short black dress to drive in, but now she throws over a long, sequinned jacket that looks rather like a wizard’s robe.

Jinkx slowly turns in the mirror, smoothing out her sequins and reshaping some of her curls. Trixie sits on the bed, watching her. Trixie is staying in her magenta, sleeveless shirt dress and its wide, vinyl belt. But she carefully uses her eyeliner to draw two interlocking Venus symbols just under her eye, then she uses one of her eye-shadows to shade in a glimmer highlight around the shapes.

At home they had made placards for the march, stapling paper on to cardboard carefully collected from the back of their local supermarket, and then nailed on to a long, thin length of wood.

Jinkx had painted “Lesbianism is Beautiful” in her copperplate handwriting on to hers, and then asked Trixie to paint a ring of pink flowers surrounding it.

Trixie had deliberated for a long time about what she wanted to make for herself. She’d been intimidated starting with something overtly gay. Instead, perhaps she’d go for something left-wing or anti-Thatcher. She’d experimented by using a thick red pen to write the words, “Wales remembers.”

Jinkx had encouraged Trixie to try a more personal message. She’d sketched out a couple of options, but she couldn’t find a way of encapsulating all her ideas in one or two words.

Trixie started her placard again, ripping the paper off and stapling on more sheets. She finally went for “Yes, even me” in stark black writing.

Trixie had strongly suggested that Jinkx leave the placards in the boot of Jinkx’s car, safely in the bin bag Trixie had taped them into. 

Jinkx had somehow managed to sneak them into the hotel past Trixie, because she pulls them out of the bag and passes Trixie’s over to her.

“Can’t we put them back in the bag for now? I don’t want mine to get bent or dirty while we’re walking there,” Trixie protests.

Jinkx raises her eyebrow, “You’re going to be walking through the middle of London with that thing, you better get some practice in.”

Trixie takes her placard and tests the weight of it in her hand. The wood is still rough and she’s bound to be sucking splinters out of her skin for days.

It gets surprisingly heavy surprisingly quickly, and she knows her arms will be aching by the end of the day too.

Jinkx makes sure to reapply sun cream to both of their arms and chests before they leave. Jinkx’s pale, freckly skin burns so quickly, she needs to refresh it at least twice a day in the summer. Trixie packs a bottle of water into her rucksack, and they make their way down to the lobby.

Jinkx walks ahead of Trixie, placard thrown casually over one shoulder. The receptionist and the doorman turn to stare. Trixie follows behind, but turns the outside of her placard to face her legs. She can’t quite make herself parade through the lobby as confidently as Jinkx, but she carries herself through the marbled lobby and down the steps.

 

***

The pride march has a meeting-point near their hotel in the centre of London. It’s not a very long walk, but Trixie keeps her placard turned in as long as she can.

By the time Jinkx and Trixie get to the march, a small crowd has started to form. There are more queers than Trixie would have anticipated. They all have colourful placards and banners flying high above their heads like the sails of a great armada.

The group are ringed by policemen, instantly recognisable by their tall black hats with their silver badges. Trixie isn’t sure if they’re there to protect the marchers from the general public, or to keep the queers in line. Trixie feels a sense of nausea in the bottom of her stomach at the sight of them. As they cross the street, her hand convulses around Jinkx’s. She pulls on Jinkx’s arm to steer her away from the police, walking in a wide circle around them.

Jinkx spots the London Jewish Gay and Lesbian Group and the Gay Nurse’s Society and runs over to say hello.

Trixie lights a fag and waits for the other women from Cardiff to arrive at the pub where they said they’d meet. As she waits, she scans the crowd for Katya.

There are plenty of slim, punky sort of women. But it takes Trixie less than a second to dismiss each of them. The meeting point is busy now, and Katya could easily be somewhere else in the crowd. Trixie gives up by the time that Jinkx and the other women reach her. 

The leaders of the march blow their whistles and begin to move forward. It takes a while for the movement to meet Trixie and Jinkx, but soon enough it’s their turn to raise their placards, step forward and begin marching.

Trixie keeps her eyes firmly on the people immediately in front of her. Jinkx is facing out, beaming to the crowd like an actor on the stage, but Trixie can barely look up from her shoes.

The march leader keeps blowing his whistle in time with the marchers. The people nearest the front are chanting.

One. Two. Three. Four. Open up the closet door!  
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. How’d you know your kids are straight?

 

 

“We’re here! We’re Queer! Get used to it!”

If there’s anything that Trixie’s childhood equipped her for, it’s a spontaneous political sing-song. Some of the chants are similar to the left-wing slogans and rugby songs that Trixie knows, and she starts to join in.

Soon, Trixie is singing alongside Jinkx and the other queers on their section of the march. She breathes at the same rhythm as the people around them, feels their bodies working together as if they are one machine.

It gives her the confidence to raise her head and look around her, shielding her eyes from the sun. They’re marching along a street of imposing buildings of grey brick turned greyer with soot. Beyond those, Trixie can just about see the tips of the high rises and the spires of churches.

A tall red bus streaks past, and that brings Trixie’s attention down to the street. She’d expected there to be hordes of angry crowds lining the streets, but there are not.

There’s still a line of policemen flanking the march, staring impassively at them in the same way they did the men at the strike, but the crowds behind them look mostly curious or bemused. 

Small groups of men with shaved heads and denim jackets scream ”faggots” and “pillowbiters” from red, blotchy faces.

Trixie averts her eyes from them and instead she focuses on the young woman pressed into a doorway. She’s watching with wide eyes, folding her hands up inside her sleeves.

By the time they reach the park at the end of the route, Trixie’s arms feel numb from holding her placard above her head, and her face is prickly-hot from the mid-day sun. The first marchers are already laying down their banners in favour of guitars and bottles of cold water.

Before Trixie can ask Jinkx what she wants to do now, a man with a bulky black camera approaches them.

“Girls, girls, I love your signs. Can I get a piccy for the London Evening Standard?”

“And it will get printed? In a newspaper?” Asks Jinkx, a bright smile on her face.

“Yeah, well, if my Editor gives me the green light –“

“But,” Trixie interrupts, “Will it have our names and everything?”

Trixie isn’t so sure that she wants to be in the papers. She doesn’t know if any of the newsagents in Onllwyn stock the Evening Standard, but she doesn’t want anyone in the village to cut it out to laugh at.

“Go on,” The photographer urges, “Give us a smile.”

Jinkx positions them so that she is holding Trixie’s waist with one hand, and triumphantly holds up her, ‘Lesbianism is Beautiful’ sign with her other. Trixie cannot bring herself to hold her placard as high as Jinkx, but she does move it in front of her chest.

The camera shutter clicks as he takes a few different photos of them. Trixie squints as the sun beats down on her face and the photographer frowns, “I know it’s sunny but can you try and keep your eyes open? I want to make sure we get that connection with you, so people feel why you’re marching.”

He kneels down on the pavement and squints through the viewfinder. Trixie attempts more of a pose, twisting her ankle out and kissing Jinkx on the cheek.

“Thanks girls,” he says, “I definitely got some good shots there.”

He takes their names and a few more details, then shakes Jinkx’s hand and drifts off into the crowd.

The clouds are fast-moving, and a large bank of grey cloud obscures the sun. Trixie gropes in her bag for her packet of cigarettes and the bottle of water.

Abruptly, the sun remerges from behind the cloud, and the change in light blinds Trixie. She lifts her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and then she sees her. It’s Katya. Unmistakably Katya.

There is no shortage of blonde, short haired women wearing leather jackets at the march. It’s hard to say what makes Katya so instantly recognisable, but the second Trixie sees her, her heart starts thumping in her chest.

Katya has changed her hair. It’s shaved at the sides now, and she has grown out a long, floppy strip of hair down the middle of her scalp. It looks like she’s let it air dry with no product at all. It curls on itself and bends up into cow licks.

Katya is only wearing one earring, but it’s a large metal rectangle with DYKE stamped unevenly onto it. Trixie presumes that, like her clit brooch, Katya must have made it herself.

“Katya!” She shouts, “Katya, it’s me! it’s Trixie! I’m here!”

She tugs at Jinkx’s sleeve, “That’s my friend from the strike, from last year,” Trixie’s words are garbled, but Jinkx understands.

Jinkx sticks her two middle fingers in her mouth and whistles. The sound she makes is extraordinarily piercing, several people turn around and stare. Even Trixie jumps a bit, and she’s heard Jinkx whistle before.

Katya stops in her tracks. Her stance is defensive, shoulders hunched over. Her eyes narrow as she scans over her shoulder.

Trixie is desperate for Katya to spot her. Trixie watches Katya’s face, she watches Katya’s eyes scanning for danger. Then their eyes meet.  
Katya’s eyes widen until Trixie can see the white surrounding her irises, and Trixie’s heart leaps in her chest.

Katya starts pushing through the crowd. She jogs towards them in her creased Doc Martens, with frayed yellow laces trailing behind her.

“Trixie, hello!“ Katya pants lightly, “Happy dyke Christmas.”

Jinkx beams and cuts in, “Happy dyke Christmas to you!”

Trixie loops her arm around Jinkx’s, “Jinkx, this is Katya. She’s one of the amazing Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners group. They literally kept us from starving to death in the strike last winter. Katya, this is Jinkx, my girlfriend.”

Katya quirks her eyebrow, “Good for you.” She gives Jinkx a quick up and down look, “I like your outfit.”

Trixie hopes that there’s a devious look in Katya’s eyes, but Katya looks sincere.

Jinkx laughs and twirls her wrists in her sequinned sleeves, “You’re the only one. The other day I was wearing the same thing to my literary salon, and Trixie came down the stairs and said ‘Jinkx Monsoon, you look like a swamp witch,’” Jinkx grabs a hold of Trixie’s waist while she teases her, and Trixie openly laughs at Jinkx’s pathetic attempt at her accent.

Trixie picks up the joke, “Yes, and then Jinkx grabbed her broomstick and flew across the moon.”

Katya laughs uproariously, the same sound that Trixie remembers from their night together. This close, Trixie can see the small scars and freckles on the surface of Katya’s scalp. It takes Trixie a while to work out what else has changed on Katya’s face. Katya has pierced her nose with a slim gold hoop. The colour is warm on her face, brings out the green in her eyes.

“We’re having a party later. You’d both be welcome, if you fancied it,” Katya suggests.

“We’re going to a dinner party with some women from Jinkx’s old college at Cambridge,” Trixie says, trying to sound enthusiastic.

She catches Katya’s eyes and there’s a flash of sly humour in them. Trixie wishes that she was speaking to Katya alone.

“Where’s the party?” Katya asks.

“Pretty central, in Shepherd’s Bush,” Jinkx answers, “Then our hotel is near Leicester Square.”

Trixie only has a limited understanding of the way that London fits together like a giant jigsaw.

Katya hums, “I’m north too, but Camden. You can get the Central line across to Tottenham Court Road and then up on the Northern Line. We always party pretty late, Trixie knows, so you can always join us after your dinner. Then just go back down on the Northern line afterwards.”

Jinkx claps her hands together. She looks elated at the thought of being invited to another party.

Trixie holds her breath, determined not to give herself away by showing too much excitement. Jinkx promises to bring wine, and studiously copies down Katya’s phone number and address in her small leather notebook.

Jinkx leans forward to feather a little kiss on Katya’s cheek. Trixie is jealous of the opportunity to breathe in Katya’s scent, both her worn-in leather jacket and the curve of her neck. She doesn’t trust herself to do the same.

“How lovely to meet you Katya and thank you for the invitation to your soiree. I’m looking forward to it,” Jinkx purrs.

“No, thank you,” Katya says smoothly, “Gotta love a pair of girlie dykes.”

She winks and runs her hand through her tuft of dirty blonde hair.

Trixie would love to think of something succinct and funny to say, but instead she just claps Katya hard on her upper arm.

“See you later, mate,” Trixie says. She tries not to shake off Jinkx’s hand as she takes hold of Trixie’s waist again.

Jinkx and Trixie head back to their hotel. They leave their placards on the top of others, piled high against a statue in the park.

 

***

The hotel is quiet in the middle of the day; the only people they see are the Chambermaids, pushing trolleys of towels and bottles of shampoo along the corridors.

As Trixie fumbles with the lock of their room, Jinkx reaches around her. Her clever fingers unbuckle Trixie’s belt and pick open the buttons of her shirt dress.

“Jinkx,” she gasps, “Careful – the maid…”

“I just want to get my hands on these juicy cantaloupes,” Jinkx laughs into her ear.

Trixie sniggers, “For fuck’s sake. You’re an idiot. Jinkxy…”

Jinkx’s fingers are wedged under Trixie’s boobs now, pulling them out of her bra as Trixie tries turning the key the other way.

“We’ve got an hour and a half before we need to leave,” Jinkx growls close to her ear.

Trixie finally manages to get the door open, Jinkx biting at her neck.

Trixie finishes off the buttons on her dress. She lets the dress crumple to the floor, kicking it underneath an armchair as she struts to the bathroom. She bends over the side of the tub to push the plug in and wiggles her arse for Jinkx. She knows it will look outrageous, with her lace knickers cutting right across it.

Trixie looks ahead into the mirror above the sink. Her shoulders are bright red, with a clear line to demarcate where the sleeve of her dress sat.

“Sister Monsoon, I’ve got a sunburn,” Trixie says, “Will you come and help me soothe it?”

Trixie lets the bath fill with warm water and adds one of the hotel’s tiny bottles of lavender bubble bath under the stream. She shimmies her underwear off until they’re left in a shapeless role at her feet.

Jinkx’s hands reverently move over the wide span of her arse. Jinkx is gentle, until she abruptly squeezes more vigorously.

Trixie’s toes slide on the damp tile.

“Careful!” Trixie yelps as she grabs the sides of the tub.

Jinkx moves her hand between Trixie’s legs to pinch lightly at her labia, they must be peeking out from between her thighs. Steam from the bath is leaving a moist sheen on her skin, but she knows Jinkx will be able to feel Trixie’s wetness on her fingers too.

“I’m getting in,” Trixie says pointedly.

She clambers over the side of the bath and Jinkx gets in at the other end. The water rises precipitously around them until it laps right at the edges of the rim. Trixie doesn’t care too much about the risk of flooding, she’s more interested in watching Jinkx’s breasts bob in and out of the bubbles.

Trixie is too tall for the bath, but she spreads her legs to bend one knee up, and lets her other leg dangle out of the side of the bath, soap slowly dripping on the tiles.

Jinkx runs the tap to soak a washcloth in cold water, and more water splashes over the side.

“Oops,” Jinkx laughs, “Those messy dykes in room 238. What are they like?”

She lays the cool, damp cloth over Trixie’s pink shoulders. It’s a blessed relief, and she can’t help moaning.

Trixie’s burnt skin is so warm that it warms the cloth almost immediately. Jinkx runs it under the cool water again and wipes it over Trixie’s other shoulder. Trixie’s eyes flutter closed, and she moans deeper in her chest.

Jinkx moves her hands under the water and starts to run her fingers softly over Trixie’s pussy. Trixie lets her head loll back against the rim of the tub.

She’s never had sex in the bath before. The sensation is strange; the water washes away her wetness almost as soon as it gathers. But the feeling of floating, the smell of the foam, and Jinkx’s legs hugging around her body make it easy for her to come.

When she’s done, she leans forward to kneel between Jinkx’s legs. It causes another mini-tsunami, which she ignores. She takes Jinkx’s nipple in her mouth as she fumbles for Jinkx’s clit under the water.

“Fuck, Trixie,” Jinkx pants, “That feels so good, baby…”

Jinkx tips her head back, and flicks her foot out of the water. Water arcs across the bathroom and spatters on the mirror.

Trixie bites around her nipple, “Do we have to go?”

“Yes,” Jinkx insists, sliding out from underneath Trixie and stepping out of the bath. She wraps the hotel’s robe around herself.

Trixie rolls over in the bath and arches her back so her ass sticks out of the water. It must be glistening underneath the sensual bathroom lighting, and she jiggles it so the water ripples around her. The sound echoes around the bathroom.

Jinkx groans, “Come on, we only have twenty minutes.”

Trixie rolls over again. She kneels up and dips the washcloth into the water, squeezes it out over her breasts and as the water trickles over her skin she grabs them and moans as outrageously as she can manage.

“Darling, I mean it. It’s time to get ready,” says Jinkx.

Trixie pouts and pulls the plug out from the bottom of the bath as Jinkx holds out another of the hotel’s robes for her.

 

***

They get ready side by side at the black dressing table. Jinkx changes into an ochre evening gown and dangling gold earrings. Her ginger hair and green eyes stand out vibrantly against the yellow tones, and Trixie marvels at her. Trixie loves the vampy red of her lips, and the dimple in her chin.

Trixie wonders what Katya is wearing tonight. She tells herself to focus on the things that are certain, and not on a woman she hasn’t seen for months.

Trixie wears something shorter, tighter and with a lot more zebra print than Jinkx. She’s chosen a sleeveless dress with cups she has to wedge and shake her boobs into, a dropped waist and a two-tier skirt. It finishes mid-thigh, and she loves the way it makes her thick thighs and sturdy calves look. It’s only June but it’s warm enough that she can go bare legged to the party, and she talcum-powders the inside of her thighs to stop them rubbing.

Jinkx finishes off her make up; she knows the shape of her own lips so well that she can line and fill them without looking in the mirror. Next to her, Trixie feels unfinished, like wood that has been chopped but is yet to be turned and sanded.

When they get to the Tube station, Jinkx takes Trixie’s elbow and pulls Trixie through the turnstiles and into the white-tiled labyrinth beneath the city. Jinkx seems to know exactly where she’s going, she doesn’t even glance at the signs that broadcast which way the trains are headed.

As they ride the escalator, Jinkx slots herself neatly on the stair in front of Trixie. She guides Trixie by the shoulder to stand aside so that people in suits can stride up the moving stairs.

The carriage is packed, and they scramble to find two seats together. Trixie tries not to stare at the other people in the carriage, but they all look so intriguing. There are women in long, bright robes and matching headdresses and teenagers nodding their heads to portable cassette players. Men in long leather trench coats rub shoulders with men in crisp shirts with long silk ties and braces.

Trixie crosses one leg over the other on her seat. She feels like she’s lit up from the inside, carrying the most glorious secret. She wonders if other people on the carriage are sneaking looks at them. She wonders if they will be able to intuit that they’ve been at the march today, that they are going on to not one but two parties.

Jinkx nudges Trixie with her shoulder, “You look like such a country girl, watching everyone. No-one ever interacts with strangers in London, baby.”

Trixie straightens up in her seat, drops her gaze to the floor. She itches to get her folded up Tube map out of her handbag and count down the stops, but no one else seems to have one.

Instead, she trusts Jinkx to tell her when they need to get out, and soon enough they’re trotting down the corridors to find their second train. Puffs of hot, dusty air come from the tunnel and Trixie starts to sweat. It drips down between her breasts and she swipes it off her top lip. She wishes she’d brought her talcum powder so she could reapply it between her legs, her thighs are burning and she’s sure that later on she’ll see a red bumpy patch where they’ve been rubbing together.

 

***

By the time they get to Shepherd’s Bush, Trixie feels like she’s travelled all the way from Onllwyn to the furthest reach of west Wales.

Jinkx’s friend’s house has the same yellowy bricks as Katya’s squat. But it’s three stories high, with white paint on the ground floor, and a shiny black door.

Trixie’s hands start to sweat, and she wipes them off on her dress before changing the movement so she can tug her skirt down at the same time.

Jinkx sprints lightly up the steps and presses the doorbell. It has a tinkling sort of sound, and Trixie hears it reverberate beyond the door.

A woman with long, dark hair and winged eyeliner answers. She wears a full skirted dress that reminds Trixie of the many in Jinkx’s own wardrobe and her hair is held up in a bun with a sash of the same material.

“Jinkx, you ghastly old goat! Get in here!” The woman shouts.

The hallway is sparse and elegant. The walls are a subtle champagne colour, illuminated by a golden clock and candlestick on a tall side table.

“Let’s get a look at your lovely country girl then,” She says, moving past Jinkx to look at Trixie.

 “You alright? I’m Trixie,” she says.

“I’m Bernadette, but please just call me Ben,” she says. Ben’s eyebrows are high and sharp, and her face is almost excessively animated as she greets Trixie. Her voice rises up at the end so that even her name sounds like a question.

Ben picks up her martini glass from where she rested it on the side table and wiggles her way down the hallway.

She stops at the end of the hall. She poses with her shoulders back and her martini glass in the air, “Follow through, girls! We’re in the dining room. I’m almost ready to serve up.”

The dining room is long and grand, with a large oval table and tall wooden chairs with elaborately carved backs.

Like Jinkx, her friends enjoy esoteric knowledge and speaking over each other. Most of the conversation circles around their university friends, the old-fashioned Dons who taught them, and how much they miss rowing along the Cam.

Trixie still ends up kicking her feet under the seat of her chair, counting down the minutes until they can leave and cross London again to get to Katya’s house. She wonders what Katya is wearing, what music she’s playing. She wonders how many people have turned up to the party.

She has a pang of vicarious nerves at the thought of Katya sitting alone in her kitchen, on those ugly sofas. If that happened she’d probably be so relieved, so thankful to see Trixie -

Trixie is pulled from her reverie by Jinkx’s elbow digging into her ribs.

Jinkx says pointedly, “Trixie, Ben was just asking if you had joined my salon - ”

“I know that she usually insists that most of her acolytes do,” finishes Ben sweetly, and Jinkx guffaws.

Trixie prickles but presses down her urge to shout. Instead, she leans in and drops a kiss on the tip of Jinkx’s nose, “When I look that word up in the dictionary I just know I’m going to need to punish you for letting her get away with that.”

“At least it wasn’t catamite. Anyway, she’s just jealous of me. She'd love a pretty girl like you,” says Jinkx.

Trixie tries to offer a subtextual viewpoint on the books they’ve read at the salon, and Ben nods thoughtfully as she does.

“Very good, very good,” Ben tells Trixie, with a glassy smile.

The conversation moves on, and Trixie returns to her daydream.

 

 

***

Trixie sees the migraine reach Jinkx like a storm rolling in across the sea. First, Jinkx starts rubbing the skin above her eyebrow. Then, she starts squinting across the table. As it worsens, Jinkx slurs like her tongue is too big for her mouth. She mixes up strange combinations of words, and others seem to get stuck on the tip of her tongue.

Trixie presses her hand over Jinkx’s, “Are you okay? Do you need to go back to the hotel?”

“I should. I’d like to – yes. We should, um,” Jinkx garbles, “I can get the- you know. The train back by myself. Or I’ll call a whatsit?”

“Are you sure?” says Trixie, “I don’t know if it’s safe to let you go on your own.”

Jinkx grimaces and flicks Trixie’s hands off her, “I grew up here. You shouldn’t let your friend down. You said you’d go.”

The words take a lot of effort for Jinkx. Her face has taken on a grey-green colour.

A good girlfriend wouldn’t let her girlfriend travel home alone while feeling unwell. Trixie wants to be good.

“Jinkx, I can’t let that happen – “

“Trixie, don’t patronise me,” Jinkx says vehemently, and Trixie relents.

They make their excuses to Ben and leave. Trixie walks with Jinkx to the tube station, letting her lean heavily on Trixie for support.

“It was all that sun earlier,” Jinkx mutters, “All I can see is stripes, and my head is pounding”

They both get the Central Line back to Tottenham Court Road, and then change to the Northern Line. Trixie is going North, while Jinkx is heading South. Trixie watches Jinkx shuffle off down the train platform, back bowed and hunched over.

Trixie feels guilty, but she still doesn’t follow after her.

 

***

When Trixie gets to Camden, the light is beginning to fade from the sky, turning it into a bubblegum pink that she stops to admire.

The front garden of Katya’s home is strewn with abandoned banners and placards, and the pavement vibrates slightly with the bass from music being played inside. As Trixie walks up the path, she can hear laughter from inside the house.

Trixie tries to knock as firmly as she can. The first time, no-one hears her. She knocks until it feels like the skin over her knuckles is going to split wide open.

“Katya, there’s someone at the door,” A voice shouts from inside. Trixie’s heart stops.

“You get it then,” Katya’s voice, sounding further away.

“I don’t live here. It’s not my party,” argues the first voice.

There are a series of thuds getting progressively louder. Katya must be coming down the stairs. Trixie’s heart is thumping so loud that she can feel it in her ears and in the pulse in her fingertips.

The door rips open, and Katya’s there. Earlier she’d had a bare face, but now she’s pencilled in her eyebrows and her thick black eyeliner dips down below her tear ducts, forming a point alongside the bridge of her nose. She wears a cool-toned red lipstick that looks cakey where it’s settled into the dry patches on her lips, but the rest of her face is bare. Her pale eyelashes look ethereal where they fan out in front of the black liner.

Hello!” Katya beams. Her hands wrapped around a stubby beer bottle, “You made it! Where’s, er, Jinkx?”

“She had a migraine,” says Trixie.

“Shouldn’t you be looking after her?” Katya ask, scrunching up her eyes.

Trixie shrugs, “She said she wanted me to come to your party. She’s a nurse, and it’s only a headache. Anyway, I just wanted to see you. I hope it’s okay that I came on my own.”

Trixie speaks faster and faster and quieter and quieter until she can barely be heard at all.

Katya reaches out and pulls Trixie over the threshold, “Of course it is, you silly arse.”

Now Trixie is in the hallway, she can appreciate Katya’s change in outfit.

Katya has changed out of her black jacket and t-shirt to an outfit that looks more like something you would find in a horse’s stable than in clothes shop.

Katya is almost nude from the waist up, the leather straps doing nothing to cover her pale skin. Trixie remembers that when they slept together, Katya was ghostly-pale, almost translucent, blotted with dark freckles. But her skin seems darker now; warmer and more substantial. Her right nipple is pierced too, with a thin gold hoop like the one through her nose. It’s a balmy night and her nipples are soft and flat.

Katya’s thin neck is ringed by a narrow strip of black leather, with a heart shaped trinket hanging down into the dip of her clavicle.

Each of her nipples are surrounded by an O shaped ring, holding the leather straps in place across her torso. Two straps run in parallel lines down her stomach, throwing the gentle curve of her waist into sharp relief. Another strap runs horizontally across her chest, over her sternum, and Trixie wonders if Katya would fall into her if she tugged it.

Katya’s trousers are made of leather too; a supple hide that looks even finer than the most expensive handbag in Howells. Trixie thinks about Katya’s muscled thighs under the creamy leather and she wants to dig her fingers into them.

“You look like…You’re giving me this Tokyo, Berlin, Depeche Mode fantasy.”

Katya hollers, and spins herself around. It’s an elegant twirl for a moment, until she stumbles and catches herself on the wooden bannister.

“Ta da!” she shouts. She kicks her leg up, almost as high as the bannister itself.

Katya wobbles a bit, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “I’ve been on the beers since we came back from the march.”

“Well, it is dyke Christmas after all,” says Trixie.

Katya takes her arm, “Let’s go. I want to introduce you to everyone.”

She starts to lead Trixie through the hall, past the mountain of discarded boots and the odd high-heel sticking out from between them like gold amongst rock. Trixie tugs a neon green shoe out by the heel to look at the label. It’s only Topshop, but Trixie can see herself wearing it.

Before they pass into the kitchen, Katya presses up on her toes to whisper in Trixie’s ear, “I forgot to say, but you look beautiful.”

Trixie blushes at Katya’s quiet, sincere voice.

“But you washed your little Venus signs off your face,” continues Katya, “I liked them earlier.”

“Jinkx and I had a bath and they got a bit messed up, so I had to start my face again,” says Trixie.

“Had a bath, eh? I’m jealous,” Katya says. Trixie thinks it’s supposed to sound teasing, but Katya’s voice sounds flatter than it did a minute ago, “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

The kitchen is as busy as a nightclub; full of bodies laughing and pressed together. You Spin Me Right Round (Like A Record) is blasting so loudly from the speakers that the glasses in the cupboard are chattering together. The main light has been switched off and replaced with flashing coloured lights coming from a big black box plugged in by the fridge.

“Here’s where your best stuff is,” says Katya, “We’ve got Jaffa Cakes, Party Rings, Twiglets, Wagon Wheels. Everything you need to have a good time.”

Katya points at the dining table, “That’s where your proper lesbian food is. It’s also where you need to go if you’re hungry. There’s hummus, olives, three bean casserole, lentil pasta, chickpea curry with rice. Everything with actual nutrients, and no additives.”

Katya’s cheeks twitch as she tries to contain a mischievous smile. Her eyes shine as they dart around the room, looking to see if her housemates are listening to her gentle mocking of their food.

Katya makes Trixie a rum and coke that is near to a 50:50 mix, and Trixie helps herself to some Jaffa cakes.

Katya picks up a stack of Party Rings, thin iced biscuits with holes in the middle. Somehow, Katya manages to fit a luridly coloured biscuit down to the knuckle on almost all of her delicate fingers, and she wiggles them at Trixie before biting into one of them. It shatters on the floor and Katya’s hand flies comically to her mouth.

“Oh no!” She whispers, before swiftly kicking the mess under the dining table.

“Bring your jaffa cakes,” says Katya, “I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet.”

Trixie’s heart sinks. She'd found Ben’s dinner party hard work, and she doesn’t want to share Katya with anyone. But she follows Katya out of the house and into the garden anyway.

Outside, the volume of the music is more comfortable to listen to. It’s still balmy, but people are beginning to cluster around a tall bonfire.

Katya grabs two folded wooden deckchairs and drags them next to a fabric camping chair holding two women sat on top of each other.

Katya introduces the women to Trixie as Monet and Roberta; they both greet Trixie with warm handshakes. Roberta wears her hair back in a neat bun, fastened with a brightly coloured scarf that is vibrant against her dark skin. She sits on Monet’s lap, wearing a royal blue blouse tucked into a beautiful apple green and yellow skirt.

Monet has full lips and the clearest skin that Trixie has ever seen up close. Her face is framed with a short, choppy cut and round, thick glasses. She sits with her legs spread in blue overalls, Roberta on one knee and a can of beer on the other.

Katya explains that they’re both nurses, and that they’ve moved to the UK from the Caribbean. Monet interrupts Katya to give the specific island nation where they’re from, then Roberta interrupts Monet to tell Trixie that they’ve been a couple since their late teen years. They moved to London to train as nurses, but also so they could live more openly together as partners.

“Ah, what a journey it’s been,” says Monet softly, kissing Roberta on her cheek.

Trixie doesn’t know anyone else from the Caribbean, but Mrs Omar took her for a Jamaican meal down the docks once. They smile indulgently as Trixie tries to remember what she ate; rice and kidney beans, a curry with a thick brown gravy and what seemed like fried banana on the side of her plate.

Monet and Roberta are both quick and funny, both seemingly unable to stop talking over each other. They argue about stories from their childhood, each questioning each other’s recollection. They argue about the species of colourful birds that would fly above them on their way home from school in St Lucia, and how tall the trees near their houses were.

 They disagree loudly about whether all white people are racist, about whether gay men should be allowed to attend women’s consciousness raising groups, and about the best way to strap up a broken index finger.

Watching them tease and spar with each other is soothing, and Trixie sneaks a look at Katya. Katya has moved so she’s sat with her legs bent awkwardly underneath her, licking all the icing from the top of her party ring. She's lapped almost all of the purple icing off, exposing plain biscuit underneath.

Katya pulls the biscuit away from her mouth, "I could watch those two gab on all day, couldn't you?"

Trixie beams, "Yeah, they're amazing."

Monet struggles to sit up from underneath Roberta. She slides down against the sloping fabric back of the camping chair. When she eventually sits up properly, she fixes her deep brown eyes on Trixie, "So Trixie, tell us about nursing in Wales."

Trixie talks to them about the industrial action that is brewing in Wales; nurses in England are complaining about the same things. They talk about Care in The Community, the new uniforms, and the stubbornly shit wages.

Trixie decides that Monet must be one of the prettiest women Trixie has seen up close, her skin seems to be glowing from the inside. When she smiles, her glasses make dents in her round cheeks, and Trixie finds it delightful.

The doorbell rings in the distance, and keeps ringing. Katya ignores it at first and then sighs, "I thought communal living meant that at some point other people would do something."

"Poor Cinders," Roberta says archly, and Katya flicks her two fingers up at her while stomping off towards the door.

Monet laughs and shifts on the camp chair. Her thighs are thick, stretching out the material of her overalls. Trixie loves to look at them. She looks at Monet’s partner, admires Roberta’s wide-open smile and the tiny silver horseshoe between the middle of her nose. They're an attractive couple.

Roberta reaches under the deck chair and pulls out another four pack of beer. She cracks one open for herself, then Monet, and then passes the third to Trixie.

Trixie has no idea where Katya has disappeared to, but she finds herself relaxed with Monet and Roberta. Roberta talks to Trixie about the difficulties of rising beyond her current grade as a black woman nurse, and Trixie forgets that Katya was even meant to be coming back.

"Alright Comrades, what's happening?" A woman shouts, and Trixie snorts. The only person Trixie has heard calling anyone comrade seriously is her dad's mate who goes from door to door hawking a socialist newspaper.

She looks up, and recognises Shea from the last time she was here. She's wearing a short PVC dress with matching boots, and her hair is now a silvery blue colour that looks daring against her dark skin.

"Hey!" says Shea, "It's you! The Welsh skank that turfed me out of my bed after that fundraiser."

Trixie knows she should probably take exception to skank, but Shea's tone is teasing.

Roberta leans closer to Trixie, a smile spreading on her face, "That was you? I should have guessed, really."

"Was that the time you had sex in the hall? I still can't believe you did that," says Monet, "You're an animal."

Shea rolls her eyes, "It wasn't even all that good."

"For something that wasn't that good, you certainly took your time doing it," darts Trixie.

Roberta roars, and Monet holds out her palm for Trixie for slap her hand over.

Shea picks up the forth beer and makes a chucking gesture at Trixie, before grinning and breaking the beer open for herself.

"Kat said you came up for the march with your Missus. Where were you standing?" Shea asks.

"Behind that drag queen with the purple sequin dress, and the Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement group."

"Ah," says Shea, "Did you notice any fash about? About ten skinheads with those stupid fucking braces"

"I saw a couple of skinheads shouting, but nowhere near ten."

"Good," says Shea decisively, "We must have seen them off then. They were waiting near the park but me and Kat decided to have a go. I thought she was going to lose an earlobe at one point, that stupid fucking earring."

Trixie's heart skips a beat at the thought of Katya getting into a fight. She's fiery but she's so slight, Trixie can't imagine her throwing a good punch.

"Well done on the strike," says Shea. She sits down on the floor, stretches out her legs along the side of the fire.

"We lost," Trixie answers, "The Tories broke us."

"In revolution you fail until you win,” Shea says sagely.

"What are you working on at the moment?" Trixie asks.

Shea explains that the members of the squat have been raising money for a women's shelter and for the new HIV testing centre in London.

"Kat's designed some new posters that are absolutely bad," says Shea, "They're up in her room. You'll have to ask her to bring them down."

"Does Katya have any other projects on the go?" Trixie asks, trying to keep her voice light.

Shea raises her eyebrow, "Why are you asking?"

Monet howls, "What sort of “projects”?" She scissors the first two fingers of each hand together.

Trixie splutters, floundering for an answer.

Like a miracle, Katya re-emerges. She springs out of the house and across the garden, leaping over piles of blankets and spare wood next to the bonfire.

"The girls are practising for the next Chain Reaction," she pants, "Sasha's going on in a minute, Violet is just finishing. I made her do one on me!"

Katya points to a thin red welt across the surface of her nipple, and Trixie's mouth dries out.

"I suppose I should go and support my girlfriends," Shea sighs.

"You coming?" Katya asks Monet and Roberta.

They glance at each other, and Roberta snuggles down into Monet's shoulder.

"No," says Monet, "We're happy here. I don't need to see someone getting all beat and chained up."

Shea stalks off into the house. She walks like a model too, ankles criss-crossing in her shiny black boots.

"Shea has two girlfriends?" Trixie asks Katya.

"Looks like it."

"What's Chain Reaction?"

Katya smiles, "It's this night in this gay bar in Vauxhall. It's like this lesbian bondage thing. Absolute heaven, except for the uptight women standing around outside shouting and making everyone miserable."

In the living room, someone has pushed two heavy coffee tables together and set a row of yellow lights across the edge. It makes a decent make-shift stage. In mid-June, the sun hasn’t quite set yet, but the curtains have been pulled tight across the window to create an atmosphere. Other women sat around the fire have flocked inside, the room is packed tight. Shea, Katya and Trixie squeeze between them and wiggle their way in front of the crowd.

Violet wears a black corset, her dark hair pulled back from her face. A fat girl leans over a chair in front of her, her pale arse already vividly striped. Pink curls obscure most of her face, but Trixie can see that her eyes are lightly closed.

Violet's prowls back and forth around the girl, cane held loosely in her hand. She eyes the girl's wide buttocks, judging where to strike. Violet stops. She raises the cane above her head and then brings it down with a whistling noise. The girl groans behind gritted teeth. Trixie winces in sympathy, but Katya cheers and whistles. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks red.

After a few more strokes, Violet turns to face the crowd and takes a small bow, folding one leg behind the other.

The other girl stands up. She's red in the face but she beams out into the crowd. Sweat glistens over her chest and stomach. Violet gives her a quick hug and jumps down from the table, gallantly holding her hand out to the girl so she can clamber down after her. Someone wraps a thick robe around the girl and passes her a steaming mug.

There’s a lull where Shea changes over a cassette tape in the corner of the room, and people drift off to the kitchen and back again.

Katya leans up and shouts to Trixie's ear, "Sasha’s coming on next. She’s a performance artist. Sometimes I don't know what's going on, but there are usually tits.”

Shea restarts the music, playing a swaggering power ballad with dramatic drums and violins. A girl stalks onto the stage, wearing a red dress and red gloves. Her head is shaved as close to the head as Trixie can imagine, but she wears a full face of make-up.

She slinks across the tables to the beat of the song, mouthing the words. She pretends like she is really singing, even affecting little gasps with her fingers pressed to the base of her throat. It’s enthralling, Trixie finds herself rooted to the spot.

Katya wraps her arm around Trixie’s waist, “I love her so much. She’s always up to some wacky shit.”

At the first chorus, Sasha strips off her left glove, showering the stage with rose petals.

The crowd squeals, and Trixie shouts along with them. Sasha grins at the crowd. She teases them this time. She pulls her second glove off torturously slowly, so that the fabric falls down her arm inch by inch. She concertinas the material between her thumb and forefinger. When she has pulled the red leather down to the wrist, she plucks it off with more aplomb. This time, the rose petals spray higher, then drift back down to the floor.

The crowd is delighted by the surprise, howling for more.

Sasha turns her back on the crowd, wiggling her hips to the music. She reaches around herself so Trixie can just about see her fingers tickling her waist. Sasha draws her top off slowly, exposing the sweaty curve of her back.

Sasha unclips her bra strap and waits for the next chorus to peak. On the beat she spins and releases the cups of her bra. Another cloud of rose petals bursts like sea-spray on the stage. Through the petals, Trixie notes that her breasts are small like Katya’s, and they spring upwards towards the ceiling.

Katya hollers loudly, jumping up and down on the spot, “Sasha! Sasha! Sasha!”

Trixie and the crowd join in.

Sasha points at Katya and beckons her to come up on the stage. Katya shakes her head and hides her face in Trixie’s shoulder. Sasha bends down and gives Katya’s shoulder a tug.

“Come on,” Sasha shouts over the music.

Katya casts Trixie an apologetic look and moves around the side of the coffee table. She digs through a dark lump of discarded clothes and costume pieces and pulls out a leather cat-mask with long thin ears.

She tugs it over her face, turning to gurn at Trixie.

Katya dances alongside Sasha, aping her movements. She makes herself ridiculous, wiggling her arms and legs and blowing her lips so that her cheeks puff up and her lips flap.

Sasha’s hips are sensual, while Katya’s are blocky. She shifts her weight from one to another with her feet planted flat on the ground, shoulder width apart. But every so often, Katya undulates her ribcage or bends her knees in a way that Trixie finds compelling and absolutely filthy.

The muscles in Katya's arm shimmer in the lights, and Trixie lets herself stare at them as Katya waves her arms above her head.

Laughing, Sasha pushes Katya hard in the back, and Katya flies over the edge of the table. Trixie catches her by the upper arms and Katya’s legs flail, wheeling in mid-air to find the floor.

Trixie looks into Katya’s face, "I can't believe that I ever thought you were shy and moody."

"I've never been shy! I just didn't think I liked you very much!" Katya’s eyes are sparkling, her cheeks flushed.

Trixie wrinkles her nose at Katya, pretending to be annoyed. She would have been annoyed before, but she understands things a little better now.

Katya digs her stumpy nails into Trixie's arm, "I like you now!"

Trixie shrieks and Katya digs her nails in further. Trixie will have little white crescents when Katya lets go.

"I do! I like you!" Katya insists.

"I like you too," Trixie admits. She blinks, and it should be a harmless gesture. But her body betrays her and her lashes bob slowly up and down, fluttering in a way that can only be described as sultry.

The crowd around them screams and Trixie jumps, looking around them. Things have escalated on the stage. Sasha has whipped off her skirt to reveal a rose petal merkin. It’s bizarre and comedic, and the crowd are lapping it up.

Sasha squats at the edge of the table and plucks out one of the rose petals, flicking it out into the crowd.

"What is she doing?" Trixie asks.

"I don't know...is it something about the commodification of the female body?"

Sasha plucks out another rose petal, throws it further out into the crowd.

The next time, she pulls the hand of a crowd member up to the petals and encourages her to tear the petals off Sasha. Underneath the petals, Sasha is wearing a white mesh thong. The more petals are removed, the more Sasha’s pubic hair seems to poke through the material.

"Hmmm," Trixie says, "It's like plucking a flower. Something about virginity being a bullshit concept."

"Ooh!" Katya says, her face lighting up, "That sounds very Sasha!"

The crowd yank rose petals off Sasha in handfuls, crushing them between their fingers with joyful abandon.

“Is it something about women just giving and giving until there’s not much left?” Trixie suggests.

“I love that!” says Katya, “And the crowd are getting like blind to the fact that she’s real, because there’s so many of us.”

By the time that Sasha makes her way to Trixie and Katya, her rose petals are practically gone.

Sasha stands in front of them, shimmies her hips so that her last rose petals flutter.

Sasha squats down, spreading her legs. Almost all of her vulva is on display, the tiny mesh gusset swallowed up by her labia. Trixie can see all the way into where the skin turns darker pink and wrinkled. Her inner labia falls slightly to the side of the gusset, and it looks like a rose petal itself.

“Pick a flower, flower!” Sasha instructs them.

Katya picks one off, throwing it up into the air.

Trixie picks the one beneath it and Sasha plays to the crowd, making an Oh! face like Trixie has stripped it straight from her skin.

“You can touch me, if you want.”

Katya moves her hand down, brushing her fingers though Sasha’s pubic hair. Sasha clasps her head between her hand and writhes, scrunching her eyes shut.

Trixie is too shy, but then Katya looks at her with glittering eyes and she puts her fingertips gingerly on the surface of Sasha’s mons. When Sasha groans more wildly, she follows the curve of Sasha’s mons until she gets to the softer skin of her labia.

Katya’s fingers pass over Trixie’s, and they dip a bit deeper in between Sasha’s labia. Sasha shakes her shoulders, opening her mouth in a silent, rapturous scream. She bends her fingers into sharp spikes. Around them, the crowd are thunderous.

Katya massages her two fore-fingers along the seam where Sasha’s labia meet in an S-shaped motion. Trixie watches Katya’s rhythm; she reaches down to the bottom of Sasha’s labia and works upwards so that their fingers cross over. Sasha shudders and bucks down on their hands. Trixie feels the skin under her fingers swell and get tacky with moisture.

Katya smiles wickedly at Trixie. She changes from her fore-fingers to her thumb, rubbing in circles rather than the wavy lines. Trixie mimics her. When she moves her fingers over Katya’s she presses down slightly, slows down so all four of their fingers move together for a moment. Sasha is grinding down, the skin of her labia getting slick.

From behind Trixie, a voice says, “Oh my god, there’s an actual fucking sex show going on here.”

“God, I wish this was you,” Katya whispers.

Trixie’s fingers falter against Sasha’s skin, and Trixie knows that Katya will feel her failure to keep the rhythm.

“Do you?” Her voice is low and needy.

Katya pulls her fingers away from Sasha, reflexively passing them underneath her nose and breathing in.

“Yes,” Katya hisses.

Before the sound fades, Trixie is on Katya.

Katya’s mouth tastes of beer and sugar, and her pointy nose squashes into Trixie’s cheek. Trixie is already panting. She grabs the back of Katya’s neck and hooks her finger around her leather collar to pull it tight around Katya’s neck. The harder she tugs, the louder and more urgent Katya’s groans become.

Trixie gives a particularly hard tug and feels Katya’s breath hitch as it cuts off her breath. Trixie groans too, rumbling ones from the pit of her stomach that feel almost as strong as the bass from the speakers.

Katya rifles through the tiers of Trixie’s ruffly skirt until she grabs a handful of Trixie’s arse. She kneads it firmly, until Trixie’s hips are bucking into her. She wants to be close to Katya, and she pushes her tongue as deeply into her mouth as she can manage. They both smell of bonfire smoke and it drifts its way into Trixie’s brain, makes her feel like her body is burning into flame.

Trixie slows them down, cups Katya’s face in her hands. She massages Katya’s lips softly with her own. She can take in more like this; the sweat on Katya’s temples and the shape of her strong cheekbones. Trixie can even feel the bumps of Katya’s tongue, and it drives a shivery-hot feeling all the way though her body.

Trixie wants Katya. She wants Katya more than she thought possible. And with a bolt of certainty, she knows what else she wants.

“I don’t want to kiss you –“ Trixie blurts.

Katya jerks back from Trixie. Katya’s shoulders curl over on herself and her arms shoot across her body, tucking into the waistband of her leather trousers. Trixie tries to peel one of Katya’s forearms away from her chest, but they’re like iron bars. Katya’s nostrils flare.

“No, no,” Trixie pleads, “I don’t want to kiss you and feel guilty.”

Katya’s eyebrows are still knitted together, and Trixie gives her arm another tug. Trixie looks down at Katya, widening her eyes and hoping to convey what she means through telepathy.

“I don’t want to kiss you and then have to go back to anyone else. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to mess this up,” she finally admits.

Trixie can see Katya grinding her teeth underneath the skin of her jaw.

“I think it’s time we have a chat,” Katya says, “We need to go somewhere quieter.”

Katya leads Trixie through the house. As they pass through the lounge Katya picks up a seafoam green jumper from the back of one of the sofas, pulling it roughly over her leather harness.

Katya grabs Trixie’s wrist and walks them swiftly through into the garden. There are still a large group of women chatting around the bonfire. Monet and Roberta are still squashed into the same camping chair. Now that the sun has set, they’ve dragged a tartan blanket over their legs.

There are no free chairs around the bonfire now, but someone has spread a large picnic blanket over the patio slabs. It’s up-wind of the smoke from the fire and close enough to feel the warmth from the flames. Trixie starts bending down to seat herself across it. There’s no dignified way of getting down to the floor in this tiny dress, but Trixie hopes she can just do it quickly to avoid showing Katya all of her fanny.

Katya tugs on her arm to stop her from sitting down, “Not here. Come with me.”

They walk past the bonfire and down to the bottom of the garden where there is a row of raised gardening beds. The beds look homemade, they’ve been hammered together out of bits of old wood and then neatly sectioned off, planted and labelled.

The beds are at a convenient level to sit on, and Trixie and Katya plonk themselves down with their backs to the bonfire.

The light from the bonfire doesn’t reach this far down the garden, but Trixie can still smell it. Tiny glowing embers drift past her face like fireflies.

Katya hands Trixie two bottles of beer, "Let me see you do that trick again."

Trixie puts the neck of the first bottle at an angle to the wooden pallets and thumps down hard on it to wedge the top off. She does it twice, and hands one of the bottles to Katya.

Katya lights a fag, and then pops it directly between Trixie's lips. Trixie almost lets it drop from her lips, she has to bite at the butt to stop it falling to the ground.

Katya leans in to Trixie with her own cigarette dangling between her teeth, and lights Trixie's from the end of it. The red glow of her cigarette illuminates their faces. This close, Trixie can see the tiny broken capillaries on Katya’s cheeks, the way her irises fade from blue to green to blue again. Her new nose ring is gold-toned, and it warms the colour of her face.

Katya shuffles to get herself comfortable on the side of the raised bed. She lets her thighs spread and her hands dangle in between them, touching the tips of each of her thumbs and index fingers to each other.

Trixie can hear the music playing from inside the house. There’s a slow drum beat and the light, plaintive vocal.

"Why is Shea playing this shit? Is this The Bangles?" Katya asks.

Trixie answers immediately, "No, bitch, it's Madonna. It's Crazy For You. Listen, the flute bit will be coming up."

Trixie knows from muscle memory when the backing singers will sing ah, ah, ah, and she points precisely on the beat for each of them. She mimes playing the flute, pressing her fingers down into the air. It makes Katya laugh, so she keeps doing it, even when the song moves on.

"Okay, I'll bow down to your superior knowledge on all things Madonna," Katya concedes.

"I know you like it on your knees," Trixie blurts.

She says it before she can stop herself. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been able to keep her tone light, mate-to-mate, almost laddish. But it came out low and direct, and she’s blushing before the words are even out of her mouth.

Katya’s gaze is steady.

Trixie witters, desperately trying to fill the dead air, “You know I always quite fancied playing the clarinet at school. They only had one though, and they gave it to Rhiannedd James because she can’t sing and I can.”

Katya doesn’t respond, she just takes a deep drag on her cigarette and then blows a narrow plume of smoke up to the sky.

“How are things going with Lucille Ball then?” Katya asks.

“What? Lucile - oh. The hair. Of course. That’s a much nicer nickname than what you gave Lloyd.”

Katya shrugs, “I’m just not invested in hearing about men.” She pauses and then says, “Sorry,” whilst not sounding sorry at all.

“He’s a good man,” says Trixie, “He always made me feel good.”

Katya’s head turns sharply to face Trixie, “Doesn’t Jinkx?”

Trixie forgot how shrewd Katya can be.

“Of course she does,” protests Trixie. It feels disloyal to say otherwise.

Jinkx has opened up worlds for Trixie. She feels comfortable in Jinkx’s home, drinking red wine and reading the newspapers with her feet up on the footstool. 

She tries to ignore the twinges of unease that Jinkx gives her; the sense that Jinkx thinks of Trixie as a kind of poodle, a decorative ingénue to mould. Sometimes she feels like Jinkx puts her down, makes decisions for her, makes her doubt herself.

Katya takes another drag of her cigarette, and this time they both watch as the blue smoke drifts over the garden fence and into the night. She waits. She doesn’t speak. Trixie knows that Katya is waiting for her to say something incriminating. The tension between them gets heavier and heavier.

Trixie breaks, “Sometimes I feel like she enjoys that I’m – fuck. Like she’d be happy to have me trail after her with starry eyes forever.”

Katya scratches the end of her nose. She asks, "How many lesbians are there in Cardiff?"

Trixie says, "I dunno. Fewer than in London."

"But still quite a lot, yeah? It's a decent city."

"Yeah, I guess."

"And how many women did you meet, before you met Jinkx?" Katya asks.

Fine pieces from the bonfire blow into Trixie's eyes, making them itch and water. Her hair is going to smell of wood-smoke tomorrow.

“None. Just her.”

Katya raises her eyebrows at Trixie, “Well there you go, then.”

"You don't believe that people can get it right on the first go?" Trixie tests.

Katya gets out another cigarette and lights it with shaking fingers. This time she forgets to give Trixie one. Trixie notices the skin on the sides of her fingers is red and bitten. She’d like to apply soft creams to them, pumice off the spots where the skin has grown back thick and hard.

Trixie bounces her leg with impatience as Katya smokes and stares at the fence.

Katya coughs to clear her throat, "I think sometimes you can meet someone who stays with you afterwards, like grit under your fingernails. Even if it’s just one night, you find yourself thinking about her fucking loud as fuck clothes, and her decent taste in records." 

Trixie frowns, "If you feel that way, why didn't you write to me, after the strike broke?"

“Mark Ashton wrote to - “

Trixie interrupts her, “He wrote on behalf of LGSM. I wanted to hear from you.”

Katya’s shoulders slump, “After that mad phone call, I didn’t know what you wanted. You said you wanted to fuck me, but what does that really mean? You could have been married to him. You could have been out like this for all I knew,” Katya gestures to her stomach in an exaggerated mime of a pregnant belly, “I wasn’t going to be that idiot dyke trailing after a straight girl.”

Trixie feels like screaming, but she tries to explain, “It was after I got laid off. I just sat around watching telly all day - ”

Katya laughs mirthlessly and mutters, “I know the feeling.”

“I just wanted to feel something. I wanted someone to see me,” Trixie finishes. She tries to pour all of her spirit into her voice.

“After the strike ended, I went back home,” volunteers Katya, and Trixie sits up a bit.

Katya had always given her the impression that she very rarely travelled back to the West Midlands. It’s a change of subject but, out of curiosity, Trixie allows it.

“How did it go?” Trixie asks.

Katya huffs, and aims a half-hearted kick at the wooden fence in front of them.

“It went. It’s different up there. More men went back to work before it ended, but my dad is one of the ones who stuck it out. I guess we’re pretty similar really; both Taurus.”

Katya kicks the fence again and a bit of green moss falls off it.

“He’s back at work now,” says Katya, “But he’s not the same. He’s so quiet now. He doesn’t talk.”

“Mine’s the same. Mum says he just needs time.”

Katya rubs the back of her neck thoughtfully.

“They both know about me now, by the way. They gave Jinkx a book token for Christmas.”

Katya’s eyebrows shoot up, “Brave girl.”

Trixie shrugs, ashes the end of her cigarette.

Katya asks, “Why didn’t you call me when you moved to Cardiff? You know dykes love any excuse to ride around in a van. We could have all driven down and helped you move.”

“I didn’t need you to help me move. My parents drove me.”

Katya is persistent, “I would have loved to come and visit. Just for fun. The only part of Wales I’ve ever seen is Onllwyn.”

Trixie snorts and says, “It’s a lot nicer than Onllwyn. There are some good gay bars, and I know a great place for a curry. There’s even a Van Gogh in the museum. You can see the cranes in the dock from my bedroom window, they’re always moving around.”

“That sounds cool,” says Katya. She puts her hand over Trixie’s and laces their fingers together.

Her chest aches when she thinks about what could have been different. She tells herself not to indulge, but she can’t help imagining what might have happened if Katya had come to stay in Mrs Omar’s spare room. She can picture herself and Katya brushing their teeth together. Maybe they could have gone to library together or visited the castle on a rainy afternoon.

Trixie sighs, "So, what happens now?"

Katya kicks out against the fence, scuffing the toes of her shoes against the wood.

"I don't know," Katya admits. She scrubs her hands over her face.

“Last time we did this,” Trixie starts, “I ambushed Lloyd. When he came to pick me up from the bus. I let him pick me up and then I told him about you, about everything. I finished it. Seven years over in ten minutes.”

Katya whistles, “Fuck. That’s brutal.”

“I can’t do that again,” says Trixie, “Not the way that I did it.”

Katya nods, chewing on her lip, “I understand.”

Monet and Bob are holding court around the bonfire, making the other women hoot with laughter. Katya turns to watch them over her shoulder and Trixie stares at her profile, outlined in orange against the dark.

Katya turns back to Trixie and says, "If you think that there’s potential with Jinkx, you should try and work it out. You don't want to waste an opportunity.”

Trixie thinks about the opportunities that she and Katya have wasted. She longs to kiss Katya. She wants to feel Katya’s chapped lips against her own, and take her delicate elfin chin in her hand. She reminds herself of what she told Katya she wanted. Katya’s fingers are still laced between her own, but Katya’s other hand is balled up on her knee. Even in the dim light Trixie can see that her fist is clenched, fingers wrapped tightly around her thumb.

“What are you going to do?” Trixie asks.

Katya sighs, “A bit of cash-in-hand. And now that she’s older, Aquaria's getting really fun. I've been working on some cartoons for us to read together. And there's these," she draws her hand along the surface of the soil, "Soon it will be spring, and the plants will need me. We're doing a veg swap with two other squats in North London.” She smiles wryly, “It’s all go here."

Trixie's heart aches at the thought of Katya drawing cartoons for the little girl, at the thought of Katya pulling up vegetables and washing off the soil to see what she’s grown.

“Sounds good, sounds exciting,” says Trixie.

They sit in silence. The wood is really cutting into Trixie’s arsecheek now, giving her pins and needles in her leg. Trixie thinks about lifting Katya’s hand to her mouth and sucking each one of her fingers, one by one, deep into her mouth. Instead, she tells Katya that she should head back to her hotel.

Katya smiles softly, “You should, it’s getting late. I wish I could go to bed, but I think there’s a bit of an orgy going on in there.”

Katya stands and stretches. Her jumper rides up to show her soft white tummy and the leather straps across it. Trixie wants to lean in and take a bite of it.

Katya twists her hands together and her shoulder pops loudly, like a burning log, “I’m too old for this.”

Trixie shrieks, “Fuck off, you’re the same age as me! Tired of orgies, tired of life. That’s what I’ve always said.”

The tension between them disappears and for a few seconds they’re just two friends laughing at nothing.

Katya takes her arm, “Come on, let’s find your bag and get you on the Tube before I don’t let you go.”

Just like that, the tension is back. Trixie stares down at Katya. She looks at her smudged lipstick and her bristled head and the yearning etched on her face.

“We better go,” Trixie says.

They walk into the house past the bonfire. Trixie stops by Monet and Roberta as she goes.

Monet struggles out of the camping chair to give her a kiss on the cheek and she winks, “I hope that we get to see you soon, Trixie.”

Trixie promises that she’s sure that she’ll come back to London before the summer is over.

Katya helps Trixie find her belongings, and Trixie retrieves her crumpled map from the bottom of her handbag. The underground station is fairly close to the squat, but she likes Katya’s patient voice as she holds Trixie’s hand and moves Trixie’s finger over the route that she needs to walk.

Trixie steps out of the house and turns back to Katya. Katya stands on the lip of the door. It makes her an inch or two taller, almost as tall as Trixie. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss her. Katya seems to sense it. Her eyes turn soft and heavy lidded, and she sways a little on her feet before she recovers herself. She strips her jumper off her head and passes it to Trixie.

Trixie’s hands convulse as she takes the bundle of warm fabric off Katya, distracted by the sight of Katya’s bare breasts and tummy. Katya’s nipples quickly pebble in the cool night air.

“Take this to get you home.”

Trixie pulls the jumper on. It’s soft against her sunburnt shoulders, and smells of sweat and leather. The jumper was baggy on Katya, but it pulls underneath Trixie’s armpits and barely stretches over her stomach.

“Thank you. I’ll give it back to you when I see you,” Trixie says.

She doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay on the doormat until the rest of the revellers have gone home, until the sun rises and the neighbours leave their houses to start their days.

Katya reaches out and tugs the seams of her jumper, so they lie straight over Trixie’s shoulders.

“Whatever happens, Trix, keep in touch. Write me a letter, eh?”

Trixie tries to raise a smile, but her lips barely seem to stretch over her teeth, “I will. I promise.”

Trixie’s hair is still caught in the neck of Katya’s jumper, and Katya gently pulls it out for her. She arranges Trixie’s curls until they lie evenly on each shoulder.

“There you are; neat and tidy,” Katya murmurs.

Trixie nods. She dares a small, puckered kiss on Katya’s cheekbone, and then heads into the street.

The party is so raucous that Trixie has forgotten that the rest of the street aren’t celebrating.

She can hear the music and the laughter coming from Katya's house until she turns the corner. Trixie can’t help looking over her shoulder every few paces just in case she’s being followed. She tells herself that it’s no different from walking around the docks in Cardiff after dark.

The underground station is on a main road and Trixie is relieved when she reaches it and sees the friendly lights of pubs, chip shops and taxi offices. There are only a few other travellers on the platform. They all look like they’ve been out drinking too, one man is holding a can of beer and staggers slightly. When the train arrives, the other people waiting on the platform splinter, each clambering on to a different carriage.

Trixie boards her own carriage. It’s empty. The sickly yellow light is jarring to Trixie’s eyes. The carriage floor and seats are both covered with food boxes and the day's newspapers.

Trixie stares at her reflection in the dark, scratched windows of the tube. She's got dark, sunken circles under her eyes and her blusher looks severe and unbecoming.

She tries to focus on counting down the number of stops that she’ll pass through until she can get off again at Leicester Square, and not on the fact that she is seemingly once again at the point of voluntarily holding a torch to the rest of her life.

Katya lives a four hour drive away. She doesn’t really have a job, or a home of her own. Trixie is not naïve enough to not see that her parents would find Jinkx’s glamour and charm more appealing than Katya’s bristly head and occasionally taciturn manner.

And yet, Trixie can’t deny that there’s a quiet connection with Katya that is unmatched by Lloyd, or Jinkx, or anyone else she’s had a passing fancy for.

 

***

When Trixie gets back to her hotel room, the first thing that hits her is the acrid stench of vomit.

“Jinkx?” She calls out.

She drops her handbag and runs quickly to the bedroom. Jinkx lies huddled at the far side of the double bed. The only part of her that Trixie can see are her curls peeking out from the top of the duvet. As she moves around the side of the bed, she sees Jinkx’s porcelain hand clutching the edge of the mattress and her vomit stained face hanging over the side of the bed.

Vomit has trickled down the side of the valance, but Jinkx seems to have caught the rest with the black plastic bin. The sour smell catches at the back of Trixie’s throat and makes her feel sick.

“Jinkxy, I’ll go wash the bin out for you.”

Trixie holds the bin at an angle under the sink so she can break up the drying vomit and swill it down the sick. She wets the flannel and brings it back to the bedroom.

She flannels over Jinkx’s dirty mouth, “Here you go. You’ll be more comfortable now. Do you need anything?”

Jinkx shakes her head weakly. Her eyes are unfocussed, her hands lie limp on the duvet.

Trixie gets in bed and gathers Jinkx to her, spooning up against Jinkx’s cold back.

“Thank you,” mumbles Jinkx.

Trixie kisses the back of Jinkx’s head, “It’s no problem, I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“I love you,” Jinkx replies weakly.

Trixie’s mouth fills with bile and she retches. She stumbles from the bed, hand over her mouth. She tells herself it’s the pervasive stench of vomit around the room, that is making her feel this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chain Reaction was a real event. There isn't a lot of information about it online, but here are some nice pictures: https://www.dellagracevolcano.com/gallery/love-bites-23196221.
> 
> Good news...I've planned out a few more chapters. Bad news...it's likely to take me a while to write the next chapter as I'm quite busy over the next few weeks!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter there was a bit of a formatting issue! I got in touch with AO3 and they said that there was nothing wrong with the chapter, and if you are seeing a problem it might be that your "skin" has become corrupted (oh no!) Appaz there's guidance on fixing that on their FAQ pages.

**Later in June 1986**

The journey home from London seems to take much longer than the drive there. Jinkx’s car seats compress Trixie’s broad shoulders, squeezing them together so tightly that she fears that she might never be able to stretch out again. Her legs are slightly too long for the footwell, and she turns on to one hip and then the other to give her knees a rest.

She’d made a mixtape for the car, but Jinkx says that she’d rather wait until they’re on the motorway to listen to it. Trixie can’t bring herself to protest when Jinkx presses play on her favourite Billie Holiday cassette. Instead, she stares out the window and lets herself be preoccupied by her own thoughts. 

Trixie runs her curls through her hands, imagining the ghost of Katya’s hands arranging them on her shoulders. She replays them sitting by the fire, recalling the crackle of the flames and the pop of the logs, Katya sitting awkwardly on the camp chairs as Monet and Roberta joked, sucking party rings off her fingers.

Jinkx is a daring driver. She darts and weaves between other cars on the road, the engine roaring almost as loud as Billie’s voice.  
Trixie thinks herself in knots, berating herself for her lapses in judgement and her rash actions.

“Two of Katya’s friends are nurses from St Lucia. They were telling me all about it,” Trixie offers.

Jinkx keeps her eyes on the road, “One of my first Practical Tutors when I was training came over on the Windrush. You know, that first ship from Jamaica. She was one of the first ones that could, after independence. She trained at The Tavistock clinic –" 

Trixie won’t let Jinkx get away with taking over this conversation. She’s spent enough evenings silently nodding while Jinkx shares another tale from her nursing training.

She interrupts, “Monet is working in Guy’s Hospital. She’s very interesting. She was explaining how they’ve got this new system where nurses rate patients based on dependency, and how they’re aiming to get staff and patient ratios down. Apparently, it’s not working very well.”

Trixie keeps going. She notices when Jinkx takes a breath and keeps talking over her. She recounts almost everything that Monet and Roberta said about their childhoods in St Lucia, and she keeps going. She tells Jinkx about Violet’s performance, feeling smug when Jinkx’s jaw drops a little. 

When she gets to Sasha’s petal merkin she finally lapses into silence, unsure what to say. Jinkx doesn’t ask any further details about her night at Katya’s party and when she’s done speaking, Trixie goes back to staring out of the window.

Eventually, they drive past the sign that reads _Croeso I Gymru_ , welcoming them to Wales.

Trixie sighs, “Passing over the border is always a good feeling. It’s always a relief to get back to your own country.”

“Principality,” Jinkx says, “Wales isn’t really a country, it’ a principality.”

“Yes it is. In what way is it not a country?” Trixie demands.

Jinkx gives a long tinkly laugh that seems to insinuate that she’s not sure how anyone could believe that Wales is a country.

Jinkx raises her eyebrow at Trixie and says, “Do you need a passport to get over the border? No. Do you have your own currency? No. You don’t have your own head of state. You can’t make any decisions by yourselves. There was a referendum on starting your own baby parliament five years ago, but you turned the chance down.” 

Trixie splutters with indignation. She has heard all those arguments before, and she is ready. She struggles to sit up properly in her seat. Her skin is still red and burnt, and the seatbelt cuts across it painfully.

Trixie replies, “We’ve got our own language, our own flag. It’s not our own fault that we were colonised. We had our own laws, actually. Before the English. And they were fairer to women, too. And I wasn’t even old enough to vote when they had that referendum.”

“But by saying, ‘Oh the English this, the English that,’ you’re admitting that Wales was conquered by England and is now part of the same country. You’re undermining your own argument, darling.”

Trixie feels her blood flood her face until her cheeks are like little lamps. 

“Conquered,” she spits, “But still a nation.”

Jinkx laughs again, “If you want to say Wales is a nation, you can. I’m just helping you think critically and refine your arguments.”

Trixie thinks for a minute about asking Jinkx to pull over so she can hitch hike her way back to Cardiff. She clenches her fist so hard that her knuckles crack of their own volition.

“Are you staying at Mrs Omar’s house tonight?” Jinkx asks.

“Well, I told her that I’d be back after work on Monday, so she’ll be startled if I just turn up tonight.”

“You do pay her rent,” says Jinkx, “She’s not actually your grandma. You can go back to your room any time you want.”

Trixie huffs. Jinkx doesn’t understand that Trixie finds Mrs Omar’s fussing reassuring, like she’s still living with family. Jinkx has suggested that Trixie spend more time at hers, even suggesting that Trixie could move out of Mrs Omar’s permanently.

“Do you want me to go back to Mrs Omar’s?” Trixie asks.

“I just thought you might have changed your mind,” Jinkx says smoothly, as she glides her car between two lorries.

“It feels as though you’re trying to get me to change my mind.”

Jinkx wrinkles her nose, “Why would I do that? You’re so suspicious, Trixie.”

They spend the last leg of the journey in tense silence. Trixie lets her eyes close and she dozes lightly.

When Jinkx pulls off the motorway and starts driving through Cardiff, Trixie forces herself awake.

“I’m feeling really tired all of a sudden. Could you please just drop me off at my place?”

Jinkx nods and takes Trixie to Mrs Omar’s house. She gives Trixie a brief peck on the lips over the gear stick. The feel of the plastic door handle in Trixie’s hand, her bag at her feet, reminds Trixie so much of breaking up with Lloyd that her throat starts to constrict. She tries not to cry. The last thing she wants to do is cry in front of Jinkx.

“I’ll give you a call in the week,” Trixie says, and Jinkx drives off before Trixie has even let herself in the front door.

***

Trixie doesn’t finish the book that Jinkx has set for this month’s salon discussion, _The Passion of Miss Ella_. Trixie knows Jinkx chose it because she found it titillating, but it just makes Trixie feel empty and sad. The characters are desperately unpleasant. The protagonist is cold and deceitful, an unmarried heiress fucking two married women of high society. Her life seems to consist of shuttling between different parties, avoiding her lovers like they are all painted wooden figures inside a cuckoo clock.

Trixie has had over two weeks to read it but has never managed to get beyond the first few chapters. She’s tried to read it on her lunchbreaks, but mostly she’s given up and gone back to the shop floor a bit early. 

They’ve barely seen each other after their awkward car journey. Jinkx had informed shortly her that her shift pattern would be very difficult to work around for the next couple of weeks. They have spoken a couple of times since, quick conversations with Trixie sat on the stairs and Mrs Omar’s favourite TV programmes blaring from the lounge.

Trixie has thought of Katya every day. She’s slept with her jumper folded under her pillow because she likes waking up with the scent of woodsmoke in her hair. She’s replayed their conversation a thousand times, replayed the feeling of Katya’s fingers lacing through her own and how her voice had softened when she admitted that she’d wanted Trixie to contact her.

But she’s not letting herself act rashly. She won’t let herself be cruel to Jinkx, who is doing the best she can. She’s going to make the best of it until she decides what to do. 

It’s been a long week for Trixie. She’s been on her feet all day, stuffed into her unforgiving white tunic, and forced to make small talk with her colleagues that assume that they know so much about her life. Madonna’s finally brought out a new album and Trixie has listened to it in her bedroom every evening, poring over the album sleeve in her single bed. 

Trixie's hair is painstakingly piled on top of her head so that it forms an unruly quiff, held in place with gel and bobby pins. Madonna has cut her hair short, into a tumble of platinum curls around her face. Trixie doesn’t know if she’d ever have the guts to do the same, but she likes the way her face is free of hair, the way it makes her chubby cheeks and dark eyes even more noticeable. She teases out one bleached curl to hang delicately in front of her eyes, which she’s painted in shades of smoky grey.

Trixie wears a black lace bustier with a silk bomber jacket she got at a second-hand store. She zips up only the bottom of the jacket, so the sleeves can casually fall down her shoulders. Her comfortable high-waisted blue jeans are perfect for the look, and pulls them up over the bottom of the bustier, before pulling as tight as she can with her leopard print belt. 

When she gets to Jinkx’s home, she’s sat at the coffee table, shuffling her tarot cards. Jinkx is wearing a long velvet dress with a green devoré pattern, and she’s spread her skirts around her on the sofa like a lily pad. 

There’s a half-empty bottle of wine on the table in front of Jinkx, and she waves her hand at it breezily, “Get a glass from the kitchen, sweetie. Everyone will be here soon.”

“No thanks, I’ll get myself a tea in a minute,” Trixie replies, settling herself on the arm of the chair. 

Trixie rubs her hand over Jinkx’s back, “I missed you. I’ve barely seen you.”

“Sorry,” says Jinkx carelessly, “I’ve just been working. The hospital has been bedlam recently. Not literally, but you know what I mean.”

“That’s okay,” Trixie says, stroking her hands through Jinkx’s hair. It’s a beautiful shade of bronze, shot through with a few silver, thicker strands. She could have stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, ready to lounge in a field or strum a harp. Trixie reminds herself how lucky she is. She reminds herself of their enchanted, cloistered weekends of reading and music and murmured prayers over home-made bread.

Jinkx keeps shuffling, staring off into the fireplace. Trixie keeps stroking her hair, wondering when Jinkx will speak. She starts to feel uneasy. There must be a reason why Jinkx is being so quiet. Eventually, Jinkx finishes shuffling and deals three cards spaced evenly across the coffee table. She sets each one down with a decisive click, before flicking them over one by one with her nail.

The first one is upside down, showing a woman sat on a throne, with fancy robes and a tall hat on her head. The second two are the right way up, one shows a man face down with a long row of swords in his back, and the other is a heart with three swords driven through it. 

The pictures are eerie. Trixie knows that her gran wouldn’t have allowed them in the house. The longer Trixie looks at them, the more she notices the occult symbols within them. 

“What do they mean?” She asks Jinkx.

Jinkx fixes Trixie with a baleful look, “Nothing good.”

Jinkx flicks one of the tarot cards across the coffee table. It spins, until it bumps into the overflowing ashtray, “Grief, loss, betrayal, not trusting my instincts.”

Trixie’s feels queasy. She tries to keep her voice positive, “Maybe the cards are telling you what they thought of the book?”

Jinkx puffs out another hollow laugh, “Maybe.”

The salon guests arrive one by one. Every time the doorbell sounds, Jinkx lights up a little more, gets a little more effusive. As she runs to the kitchen to get another bottle of red she grabs Trixie for a quick peck on the cheek, and Trixie finds her lips chasing after Jinkx. She is as bright, as magnetic as a shooting star, streaking across the sky. 

“How was the march?” Diane asks, “I’m gutted that I didn’t manage to make it up to London.”

“It was fantastic!” enthuses Jinkx, “I booked Trixie and I a lovely a little hotel near Leicester Square. It had the most decadent bath, didn’t it darling?”

Jinkx doesn’t wait for Trixie to agree before she continues, “We had our picture taken for the papers. The photographer _loved_ our banners. I managed to see my Benny in the evening as well, which is always a delight –“

Jinkx takes a breath and Trixie seizes the opportunity to break in, “I went to a party at my friend’s house as well. She lives in a squat and – “

“There was a bigger turn-out this year,” says Jinkx smoothly over the top of her, “And fewer religious nuts telling us all to go to hell.”

Diane says, “One of the other girls from Cardiff said they had such a laugh in the hostel. Apparently, they were sharing a dorm with some girls from Newcastle who were wild. According to Kate, they didn’t stop drinking until gone three, and some of the Geordies were rather frisky!” 

Trixie is full of jealousy. A lot of the other women who went to the march from Cardiff were around her own age, and she’d like to get to know them better. She is determined that if there’s another march, she’ll tell Jinkx that she’d like to stay with the other women.

Jinkx makes cold eye contact with Trixie, and Trixie realises that she is frowning. She smooths her forehead out. 

Jinkx says acidly, “I bet they had a lot of fun sharing one toilet and one shower between them.”

“Where does your friend live, Trixie?” Diane asks her.

“In Camden,” says Trixie.

Jinkx jumps on the end of the sentence, “Trixie got around on the tube by herself! Isn’t that fantastic?” I was so impressed.”

Trixie hooks her nails into her knees, “It was only the Central and Northern lines.” 

Her voice sounds sulky, and Jinkx’s sounds even brighter and breezier in comparison. 

"It was so sweet when you were calling them the black and red lines,” Jinkx says.

Trixie is about to bite back, when Jinkx calls everyone to attention by tapping the side of her crystal glass with a cake fork. The clear sound rings around the room, and the other members quickly finish their conversations, turning their heads towards Jinkx.

Jinkx holds the book up like she always does, “So, women, what do we think of _The Passion of Miss Ella?_

“The world building was so effective,” gushes Faye, “I could practically taste those desserts, hear the rustling of those skirts in the ballroom. Couldn’t you?”

The room buzzes with enthusiastic conversation. The other women seem to have enjoyed the book. Trixie sits quietly, thumbing aimlessly through the pages of her library copy.

Deidre lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “And the sex scenes weren’t bad either, were they?”

Several of the group giggle, and they discuss a scene where Miss Ella has her maid go down on her from underneath her massive skirts. 

The scene bothered Trixie from the first time she read it, “I don’t get how a feminist publisher published this. It’s weird, Ella never asks her maid if she wants to do it, she just tells her to do it. And it seems like the maid couldn’t say no, she’d probably get the fucking sack if she did.”

Several of the women hum thoughtfully at Trixie’s point. Jinkx, however, glares at Trixie. 

“I think it’s actually quite powerful,” Jinkx starts, “To subvert the usual patriarchal hegemony. I don’t think that Ella can wield structural power over the maid, because outside the confines of Ella’s home they are both part of an oppressed group. The house is a place where you can play with power and status.”

“But that makes no sense,” Trixie protests, “When you remember that yes, they’re both women, but Ella has ‘structural power’ because of her class. The maid doesn’t work there because she likes it.”

One of the women smirks at Trixie, “I didn’t think of it quite so _literally_. There’s a distinct subtextual thread that makes it clear that the maid may have entered into a sadomasochistic contract with Ella. She may not be a maid in the traditional sense at all.”

Jinkx turns her head away from Trixie, “Do you think there is a system of morality within the text?” She asks Diane.

Diane gives one of her characteristically long and rambling answers, using several words that Trixie has never heard before.

“Perhaps you could offer us some personal insight, Trixie?” Jinkx says, raising her eyebrow.

Trixie’s heart beats faster, “Insight into what?”

Alongside the anxiety, Trixie feels a twisted sense of relief. She knows that something has been bothering Jinkx since they were in London, and she has wondered whether Jinkx has intuited what happened while she was at Katya’s house.

“I thought you would be able to offer some personal reflections on the theme of morality,” Jinkx says coldly.

Trixie tries to match her tone, “I really don’t know what you mean.”

Jinkx meets Trixie’s eyes, “I think that you do. I thought you’d have a lot to say on the topic of infidelity.” 

Jinkx takes a sip of her wine and sets the glass down triumphantly, as if she has settled the argument. 

Diane loses her grip on her book. It bounces off the table and clatters to the floor, where it lies forgotten on the rug. Trixie looks around the table at the faces of the women. They are agog, leaning in over the table with eyes as wide as Jinkx’s dinner plates. All of them are silent. 

Trixie feels herself burn from her toes to her scalp. She looks each of Jinkx’s friends in the eye. She wants them to confront her. She wants them to confront her age, her womanhood, and for them to each wonder why they don’t speak out. She wonders how many other young women Jinkx has gobbled up like this. 

Trixie is floating somewhere over her body when she says, “I’m just going to take the cheeseboard out of the fridge so it can come up to room temperature.”

She tries to rise as gracefully as she can, as if a string is tied from her scalp to the ceiling. Her limbs seem to move of their own volition. 

Her own hands look unfamiliar to her. They’re so big, so square, with such long fingers and such stubby nails. She runs them under the hot tap until she can feel the stinging heat in them.

As she promised, she removes the cheeseboard from the fridge and sets it on the kitchen table. When the cheese has reached room temperature, she will remove the foil from over the cheeseboard, and chop up some grapes to decorate the board.

For now, she will rest her forehead on Jinkx’s fridge and remind herself that she wants to get through tonight. She won’t make the same rash decisions that she did last time. She wants to think it through, treat Jinkx better than she treated Lloyd, make sure she doesn’t burn any bridges in Cardiff.

She is repeating this to herself like a mantra when Jinkx’s hand grabs her shoulder. It rips her away from the fridge and spins her around to face Jinkx. She always forgets Jinkx’s strength, the fact that she restrains people for a living. 

“Why are you embarrassing me?” Jinkx demands.

“Me? Embarrassing you?” Trixie says incredulously.

“Storming off! You know you’re doing it, making it look like I’ve upset you.”

“You have upset me,” says Trixie, “I don’t know quite what you’re accusing me of – “

“Yes you do,” Jinkx looks at her fiercely, “Coming back at 3am after stranding me in the Tube –“

“You said you were fine!” 

“Spending all evening with the woman that was your first, after not even introducing her to – “

“You did the same to me!” Trixie can’t help shrieking, “All that fucking _walked through life with_ nonsense. I thought that’s what you wanted, I thought it was sophisticated to not –“ Trixie breaks off, shaking her head at herself. She doesn't need to justify herself.

Jinkx lowers her voice and moves even further into Trixie’s space, “I told you I loved you and you fucking _vomited_ and went to sleep.”

Trixie rubs her knuckles into her eyes until her vision is full of black and white spots. She grinds out, “I vomited because I was cleaning up your spew, which fucking _reeked_ of red wine by the way. I went to sleep because you were poorly and needed to rest. And then you were a bitch the next day.”

Jinkx’s gaze is steely, “What happened at the party?” 

“I didn’t cheat on you, I didn’t,” Trixie pleads, “Can’t we do this later?

“Something happened,” says Jinkx. Her green eyes have gone dark and beady, like a magpie’s, “I know it.”

Trixie is about to own up to the kiss, to the conversation in the garden. She is about to confess and apologise, in the hope that it will assuage Jinkx. But then a movement catches her eyes, and she sees Diane’s face in the glass of Jinkx’s kitchen door. For a second their eyes lock, and it’s enough to send fury pulsing through her.

“Fuck you,” Trixie says with emphatic finality, “I’m off.”

She rips open the kitchen door and shoves it with her full weight. The glass panels rattle.

Around the table, Jinkx’s guests are looking at Trixie with horror on their faces. Diane is frozen on her way from the door to her seat, like a naughty child tip toeing away from the biscuit tin. Trixie feels exhilarated, drunk on power.

Trixie toys with the idea of giving the tablecloth a firm tug. She’d like to send their plates and glasses flying before their eyes. She wants to make even more of a monstrous spectacle of herself. Instead, she swipes at her handbag, leaving her copy of that awful novel open on the table. She storms into the hallway and stuffs her feet into her shoes.

Jinkx rounds the corner as Trixie tries to lace her shoes. She looks elemental, with her hair tangled around her head like a flaming halo.

Jinkx hisses, “Why are you showing me up like this?” 

“Me? Showing you up? That’s why you chose that fucking shit book. You orchestrated this whole evening around humiliating me, calling me back to heel – “ Trixie shouts, pointing her finger at Jinkx’s face.

Her heart is thumping in her chest. Trixie looks at the tall coat stand laden with jackets, bags and scarves from the members of the salon. She reaches out and gives one denim sleeve a hard pull. The stand topples diagonally across the hall, with a crash so loud that some of the other women scream. 

Across the hall, she holds Jinkx’s eyes. The cold fury in them makes her shudder, and she is grateful to have a physical barrier between her and Jinkx.

Jinkx raises her eyebrow slowly. She lifts her long velvet skirt and steps neatly over the fallen stand. She walks towards Trixie deliberately, one foot crossing over the other. It’s enough to put the fear of God back into her.

Trixie scrabbles at the back of the door. Her fingers fumble with the lock, the handle. Jinkx is right behind her, but Trixie finally manages to pull the door open. She charges out into the street, bag swinging wildly from her elbow.

“Trixie, come back inside,” Jinkx instructs. Her voice is lower, slower than it was inside.

“Fuck you –“ Trixie spits. The panic ebbs away now they’re outside. She feels bolstered by seeing Madge, her treasured car. Madge is so beautiful, waiting on the pavement with her lipstick-pink paint and friendly, eye-like headlamps. 

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Trixie shouts at Jinkx, “You’re a fucking fraud! I can’t believe they let you look after sick people!”

She roots around in her handbag for her car keys, but before she can lift them from the scurf in the bottom of her bag, Jinkx catches up with her.

She lowers her voice, “You should think very carefully before you walk away, Trixie. It’s not going to be easy to find someone to guide you like I’ve been doing.”

“I don’t need you to guide me. I guide myself,” Trixie says. 

Jinkx gives her a pitying smile, “It must be difficult when you feel the urge to sabotage your relationships because you’re not happy -”

“What the fuck does that psycho-bullshit even mean?” Trixie screams, “You shouldn’t be a nurse you should be a -uh - , you should be a uh - .”

She peers into the window of Jinkx’s house and sees her own reflected back at her. Her mouth is distorted with rage. Her silk jacket is bunched around her middle and one boob is threatening to leap free of her bustier. She looks demented, and beyond the reflection she can see the faces of Jinkx’s friends, shocked and exhilarated, watching them.

Trixie picks up one of Jinkx’s bright ceramic plant pots and hurls it into the middle of the window. It smashes with a satisfying bang, shards of pottery and lumps of dirt scatter into the hair. Jinkx’s friends scream again, jumping back from the window.

Jinkx doesn’t even look back at the window. She grabs Trixie’s wrist and persists, “You can’t love because you don’t feel you’re _worthy_ of love. Being in a same-sex relationship is far more emotionally complex, and not everyone has the necessary matur-“

Trixie can’t bear it any more. She roars, “You’re fucking wrong. I am capable of love. I don’t love you because you’re a fucking _maniac_. I _did_ love Lloyd and I think I could love - _oh_.”

Trixie tries to pull free, desperate to get into Madge and start driving. She knows what she must do.

Jinkx tightens her fingers around Trixie’s wrist but Trixie shoves back at her. Jinkx stumbles on the uneven concrete outside of her hours, yelping as her ankle rolls underneath her.

For a second, Jinkx looks up at Trixie with wide, watery eyes and her lip caught in her teeth and Trixie thinks of pulling Jinkx up to her feet, letting Jinkx lean her on her arm until she stabilises her ankle. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she turns her back on Jinkx and opens Madge’s door. 

Trixie swings herself into the driver's seat, and watches Jinkx limp after her in the reflection of the wing-mirrors. Jinkx gains ground fast, and before Trixie can shut it, Jinkx grabs Madge's door.

"You’ll hurt her too - " Jinkx starts.

Trixie tries to tug the door shut, but Jinkx keeps her fingers hooked over the top of it.

"Are you attached to those fingers?" Trixie asks coldly.

Trixie meets Jinkx's eyes, raising her eyebrow when Jinkx doesn't move her hand back immediately.

Trixie gives the door another, harder tug. This time Jinkx moves her hand back, lets it flop at her side.

Trixie slams the door shut, starting the ignition and accelerating down the street as fast as she can. She takes one final glance at Jinkx as she drives away. The nurse looks lost, standing next to the empty parking space with her head bowed. 

Trixie works her way through the roads leading out of Cardiff. She feels a strange sense of exhilaration, stabbing roughly at the radio buttons so that the car fills with cheerful noise.

The sky starts to darken as Trixie nears the border of Wales. Grey clouds become rounded and pregnant with rain, finally spattering her windscreen with fat raindrops just as she hits the Severn Bridge, taking her over to England. 

The tops of the white metal bridge are shrouded in cloud, the only colour is in the snippets of neon orange wind sock that are whipped back and forth by the wind. The bridge bounces and jumps beneath Trixie and the gusts force Madge to the side, pushing her dangerously close to the sides of the bridge. She puts her shoulder into it, pushing the wheel hard to keep Madge on course. 

Lorries with sixteen fat wheels overtake her little car, coating her windscreen with a fine spray that makes it even harder for her to drive. She looks down into the churning water beneath the bridge. Trixie desperately wants to pull the car over and sit with her eyes squeezed shut until everything stops moving quite so fast. She starts to snivel, tears rolling down her face as she keeps her foot down on the accelerator. It’s too risky to root around in the glove box for a tissue, she barely dares to dab at her eyes with her sleeve. 

As she drives through the English countryside, the weather seems to lighten again. When Trixie guesses she’s about halfway through the drive, she pulls off the motorway and into the service station.

She follows the reassuring yellow glow of Wimpy, the fast food restaurant. She orders a double hamburger and waits for it on the red vinyl benches, studiously picking at her nails. 

The food is bland and rubbery, even when it's doused in tomato sauce. She finishes as quick as she can, taking her red plastic tray back to the counter. The boy behind the counter stares at her for longer than he needs to and she scrubs self-consciously at the skin under her eyes to remove tell-tale mascara trails. 

She stops at the pay-phone in the foyer of the services. Trixie is lucky that she brought her FiloFax with her in her handbag. She pulls out a handful of coins and flicks to the address book section of her organiser. She’d painstakingly copied everyone’s addresses and telephone numbers into the book in her very best handwriting. Jinkx is entered in to the M tab. Trixie thinks about putting a fat black strike through it or ripping the page out entirely. She tells herself she’ll decide later, and feeds a handful of coins into the phone.

First, she calls Mrs Omar and lets her know that she won’t be home tonight, or for the next couple of days. Then she calls her manager at Howells at her home address. Trixie can hear children shouting in the background, the buzz of a TV. She sounds perplexed to hear from Trixie, but Trixie puts on the weakest, most pathetic voice she can and says that she needs the rest of the week off to recover from a gruesome stomach bug.

Lastly, she calls her mother. She has no reason for calling her mam, other than she’d really like a warm cwtch from her.

Her mam’s voice is immediately soothing as she answers the phone, “Hello Mared speaking, who’s this?”

“Mammy it’s me, Trixie.”

“What’s wrong?” Her mam says immediately. She can always tell when Trixie is upset. 

“Nothing. I’m just going to London for a couple more days. I’m going to stay with my friend Katya.

“I remember,” Trixie’s mum says warily, “But I thought – What’s happening with your other friend?”

“Girlfriend,” corrects Trixie unthinkingly.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? The ginger one.”

“Things aren’t so good, Mam,” Trixie offers, “But I’ll be fine.”

When Trixie has finished talking to her mam she feels a little better, and treats herself to a packet of Fruit Pastilles to help her with the rest of the drive.

Trixie drags her dad’s old A-Z map out of Madge’s boot and looks up Camden in the index at the back. She props the tall book up on the passenger seat and gets ready for the challenge of driving into London for the first time.

***

By the time Trixie gets to Camden, her arms are numb from where she has kept them locked and braced against the steering wheel.

She climbs out of Madge and cracks the joints in her elbows. Trixie's bag lies down in the footwell; it feels like tempting fate to take it with her. Instead, she throws her jacket over it and strides up to Katya’s front door, swinging her arms in what she hopes is a nonchalant way. 

The curtains of the front room are pulled tight. Trixie knows this is usual for the squat, to avoid nosy neighbours. There is no light peeking through the tiny gap between the curtains, and Trixie starts to feel less confident about there being someone in the house.

She knocks at the front door. She knocks twice, and then a third time. She waits a little and then gives a series of rapid knocks. Trixie starts to consider whether she should drive back to the main road and ask about the guest rooms above the pub. Just when she is about to give up, the door jerks back an inch or so. A chain jangles, and Katya’s wide, suspicious eye appears in the crack.

Trixie is not quite sure how to introduce herself. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans and tries a casual, “Hiya, what's up?”

Katya pushes her face closer to the gap and smiles so broadly that her white teeth take up the entirety of the gap. The chain jangles again, and Katya opens the door properly.

“What a surprise!” Katya exclaims, pulling Trixie’s arm, “Come in! How come you are in London again?”

The light in Katya’s hallway is bright over their heads, and Trixie is suddenly self-conscious of the black smudges of eyeliner under her eyes, and the streaks where her tears have washed away her foundation.

“Ah,” says Katya, “Something’s gone wrong.”

Trixie can’t stop her face from crumpling up in the middle, or her mouth from making a long honking sob. 

“It’s Jinkx,” Trixie forces out, “It’s all over and I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”

Katya’s eyebrows creep higher and higher up her forehead as Trixie cries at her.

Katya scratches at her ear and then drops her hand so it hangs awkwardly. The side of her hand is stained with silver pencil lead, the creases in her hand left white. Trixie stares at them, familiarising herself with their rivulets. 

“I’m sorry,” sniffles Trixie, “I calmed down in the car but now I’m doing this again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Katya nods seriously, “I’ll make you a tea. You should have a sugar in it. It’s good for shock.”

Katya looks so earnest that it surprises a hoarse laugh out of Trixie. Laughing is good for her, her snivelling dries up, and she can think more clearly. 

“You and I both know that finishing things with her was hardly a big shock,” Trixie says, catching Katya’s eyes, “I think the bigger shock was that I managed to drive through London without crashing the car.”

Katya’s mouth twitches like she’s stifling a laugh, “Everyone else is down the pub, but I’ve been stuck looking after Aquaria. I’m too superstitious to let her sleep without watching over her, so you’ll have to come up to her room with me.”

Katya takes Trixie through to the kitchen and makes two cups of dark brown tea in mismatched mugs. 

“Lily and Aquaria’s room is right up the attic,” says Katya, “Sorry about the climb.”

Trixie wraps her hand around her mug to stop her from spilling her tea up the steep, narrow stairs. Katya is careless, leaving a trail of drips up the carpet.

The door to Katya’s room is ajar, and Trixie can’t resist sneaking a look at the slim rectangle of her bed, just visible in the dark. It’s eerie to be in the house when it’s so quiet, Trixie has only ever known it full of noise and people.

The steps up to the attic are steeper again, and Trixie is grateful to get to the top. The room is dark, aside from an orange glow from a lamp near the single bed in the middle of the room. Aquaria is asleep on her back, with her mouth open and blonde hair splayed across the pillow. Her hand clutches the tail of a stuffed shark, its head looks squashed and misshapen. 

Katya rushes to the side of the bed, and Trixie sees the relief on her face when she watches Aquaria’s chest rise and fall. 

“She’s fine,” says Trixie, “Look at her sleeping. You’re doing a good job.”

Katya steps back from the bed and flops down on the mattress pushed up against one wall. She clears a space for Trixie, moving a colourful looking story book and a drawing pad.

Katya shuffles on the mattress so she sits on her folded legs, “Tell me what happened, then.” 

Trixie tries to keep her voice down, but soon she is whisper-shouting as she picks over the argument in the car, the last dinner party. She even confesses to Katya about coat stand, the flowerpot, and threatening to close the car door on Jinkx’s hand.

Katya is a good listener, nodding in the right places and _hmm-_ ing under her breath. She doesn’t interrupt, she just sips her tea and watches Trixie with her cool grey eyes. 

“I just got in the car,” Trixie concludes, “And followed my instincts.”

Trixie waits, hoping that Katya might lean forward and _do something_ , but she doesn’t. Katya only moves her hand to grasp at her drawing pad. She doesn’t open it, just rhythmically thumbs at the corners of the pages.

Trixie looks around the room, her eyes now adjusted to the low light. Above the bed there’s a mural of a blonde woman holding an enormous two-handled jug, pouring out water. The blue water fills the rest of the room, and within the deluge there are fantastical sea creatures painted on to the wall. Trixie smiles at two pink, frilly jellyfish linking tentacles, and a small red crab with a bowler hat.

The longer she looks, the more she notices what the murals are covering up. Freckles of black mould swamp the body of a blue whale. The surface of a long, golden fish is uneven, where the paint underneath is bubbling. Elsewhere, strips of paint have peeled away altogether, exposing the brown, striped wallpaper underneath. 

Trixie looks at the little girl, “Isn’t the damp bad for Aquaria?”

“Probably. But Lily wants to live here, she’s got her reasons."

"With squatters' rights and everything, can't you just fix it?" Asks Trixie.

Katya huffs, "They tolerate us for now because we keep the garden nice, but we’ve no idea when we might have to move on. They’d have to go through the courts to get rid of us, but they might do that at any time.”

“You said before that were a lot of houses?” Trixie asks. 

“All over London. There are whole streets of squatters. Some have shops, some even print their own newspapers,” Katya gets into the swing of explaining. Trixie lets Katya’s explanation wash over her, rehearsing what she wants to say in her head. 

The attic bedroom is stuffy and Trixie is sweating. She doesn’t know how frank to be, or what Katya might be expecting. 

“Katya, do you think I could stay for a few days? I really wanted to talk to you. I feel like we’ve got a lot we could - . I know the timing isn’t good. Well, it’s never been good. But I want you.”

Trixie looks down into her lap, twists her plain silver ring around her finger.

Katya keeps thumbing the corner of her notepad until Trixie thinks she might go mad and rip the notebook from Katya's hands and throw it across the room.

“I want you too,” Katya quietly admits.

The air between them thickens. If it wasn’t for the child lying just feet away from them, Trixie would surge towards Katya, pulling her firmly against her own body.

Katya moves closer, looping her arm around Trixie’s back. She folds her fingers through Trixie’s belt loops and her thumb pokes up, the pad brushing the skin of Trixie’s back. Trixie’s awareness shrinks to that small piece of skin. The light pressure of it makes her shiver. She wants to arch into it, writhe against it, demand that Katya touch her harder and give her _more_.

“I hate being left alone with the baby, but I’ve never wanted them to come back from the pub quite _so badly_ before,” says Katya.

Trixie laughs and picks up the storybook that Katya set aside. She tosses it into Katya’s lap, “Read me this to pass the time then.”

Katya opens the book to a sunny picture of a woodland, three pink pigs with bright grins. 

“This looks shit,” Katya says bluntly. Instead, they sit and talk about nothing. Trixie loses track of the way the conversation loops around to music, to places they’ve eaten, to people they know, and then back again. As they talk their bodies become steadily more entwined, until they end up lying with Trixie’s head resting on Katya’s chest, and Katya’s socked feet rubbing along her calves. Katya skims her palm over Trixie’s before she captures it, linking her fingers between Trixie’s.

Trixie can’t help rubbing her cheek against Katya like a cat, humming faintly as she wraps her other arm around Katya’s waist. 

The slam of the front door makes them both jump, tearing themselves apart from each other like they’ve been caught doing something scandalous.

Katya springs to her feet, “You look after Aquaria for a moment, I’ll go talk to Shea.”

Trixie waits on the futon, staring at the little girl sleeping while she hears the muffled sound of voices from downstairs. 

Katya returns with Lily, who looks both tipsy and exhausted.

“Shea said she doesn’t mind sleeping on the sofa tonight, and then tomorrow she’ll stay at Violet’s,” says Katya.

Lily coos at them, scrunching her nose at them like they’re small children, “That’s lovely, good for you girls.”

She hiccups as she shrugs her jacket off, leaving it pool on the floor as she kisses Aquaria’s sleeping cheek.

She turns back to Katya and Trixie, “Go on and get on with it then.”

***

Trixie anticipates that they’ll start ripping each other’s clothes off as soon as they get to her bedroom. They don’t. Instead, Katya holds her hand as she takes them to her bed, and folds them up in the same position as they have been in the room upstairs.

Katya holds her body stiff underneath Trixie and starts to flex her toes forward and backwards so rapidly that it manages to make the mattress beneath them tremble. 

Trixie isn’t sure what to do. She brushes a gentle kiss against Katya’s neck, but Katya stiffens further. She stares up at the curtains, the same floral curtains that she’d stared at the first time she’d slept here. 

She gently moves her hand over Katya’s stomach, rubbing circles that are meant to be soothing. Katya’s t-shirt is half rucked-up over her stomach and Trixie can see a half-moon of soft skin exposed. She rubs her hand over it slowly, like she’d approach a stray cat. 

Trixie starts to play a game with herself, trying to touch each of her fingers to one of the brown moles on Katya’s skin. It’s awkward, she must stretch out her little finger and curl her thumb underneath her hand. She tries turning her hand one way and then the other, stretching her middle fingers out until it feels her knuckles might pop. It’s a stupid game, but it distracts her from her racing thoughts. 

Katya’s hand has moved down the back of Trixie’s head and she firmly pinches the back of Trixie’s neck, rolling the flesh between her fingers. Trixie lets her eyes flutter closed. Her shoulders have felt tight for days now and have seized up even more after gripping her steering wheel for dear life.

Trixie moves from touching Katya’s freckles to using her fingers to brush the fine gold hair on Katya’s stomach. She brushes the hair into one neat line, and then brushes it back against the grain. Katya’s stomach jumps underneath her fingers. Trixie wants to squeeze her skin, see if she can shock a sound out of her.

Katya was cautious and slow last time too, winding Trixie up until she was about to explode. For all her frustration last time, Trixie was also grateful for Katya’s patience with her lack of experience. This time, she feels a lot more confident. 

“Are we ever going get it on?” Asks Trixie, smirking a little.

To Trixie’s surprise, Katya’s body convulses with giggles. They are strong enough to bounce them both up and down on the bed. 

“I wasn’t sure how long your mourning period was,” gasps Katya between her hoots, “It seemed like the body was still warm.”

Trixie tries to keep a straight face, “Oh no, it’s cold. The autopsy has been done and the coffin is in the ground.”

“Are we at the wake yet?” Katya asks.

“Oh yeah,” Trixie whispers emphatically, “We’re at the end of the wake. The triangular egg sandwiches are drying out. Someone is soaking their knuckles in ice. Someone’s singing the Welsh national anthem but they can’t speak Welsh and they’re just making random noises.”

“I bet Welsh funeral singing is a lot more impressive than a bunch of pissed up Brummies. By this point my family would have cracked open the whisky.”

Trixie sighs, “I wouldn’t say no to a whisky right now.”

Katya sits up a little, “I’ve got a bottle under the bed, help yourself.”

Trixie leans off the side of the bed, balancing on one hand and pulling out a large plastic box with the other. She roots around; there are fat leather notebooks, yellowed envelopes with creases in them where they have been folded and unfolded, and a smooth wooden box with a tiny lock. 

Trixie finds the whisky with two glass tumblers stacked next to it. As she lifts it out, she gets a glimpse of a plastic shaft with a ring around it, connected to a tangle of leather straps. Trixie blushes, only half-sure she knows what she’s looking at. 

She pushes herself back on the bed, holding the whisky triumphantly. Trixie has never heard of the brand, but the label shows a stag looking off into the distance, against a purple tartan background. 

“What it lacks in depth of flavour, it makes up for with kitschy Scottish nationalism and being 48%,” Katya declares as Trixie pours two fingers into each glass.

“You want this?” Trixie asks her. She walks on her knees until she’s got one either side of Katya’s legs, “You want to have a wee dram with me?”

Katya swallows as she looks up at Trixie, blinking her soft blonde eyelashes.

“Yes please,” she answers.

“Okay,” says Trixie, and then she slams back both tumblers of whisky like they’re shots in a club. The whisky is cheap and corrosive, and burns her throat. She rubs the space between her collarbones, to help it go down quicker. 

“You bitch!” Katya squeals, “That’s my whisky.”

“I’m, like, chief mourner! I need a head start.”

Trixie refills their glasses, handing one to Katya. They sip it, although it still tastes cheap and nasty to Trixie. By the time she gets through the glass it has started to warm her, rather than burn. Her limbs feel looser and more relaxed. The end of her nose, her cheeks flush. 

Trixie methodically takes out the pins holding her hair up and piles them up on Katya’s dresser. Her hair is so stiff with gel and spray that it doesn’t even fall out of the style she’s forced it in to. Trixie runs her hands through it, separating the strands carefully and winces where it pulls at her scalp. 

Katya lies on her back against the pillows, with her legs stretched out and her arms folded behind her head. Trixie lies on her side, propping herself up on one elbow. Katya tops up their glasses every time they run too low, and soon they’re both giggling at nothing. 

Trixie feels reckless. She wants to make Katya sweat. 

She strips off her bomber jacket to reveal her bra underneath. She’s sweaty, and she knows that her chest must be flushed with the booze. 

Katya’s eyes immediately dip down to her breasts. Katya doesn’t say anything, but she smirks at Trixie and crosses one ankle over the other.

“Hey, watch this,” says Trixie, and she wedges her stubby whisky tumbler into her deep cleavage. She twists the glass until it feels relatively stable there, and walks on her knees to straddle Katya’s legs.

Katya says nothing, just looks up at her. Her cool irises have been swallowed up by the black of her pupils.

Trixie bends forward, so the whisky sloshes precipitously against the side of the glass. The bed is soft under her knees and she fears that she’ll pitch forward and soak Katya and the bed.

Katya puts on the voice of a sports commentator narrating a footballer scoring a goal, “Is she going to do it? Is she going to do it? Oh yes she is – “

Katya shuffles forward on the bed so that her head is directly below the glass, lets Trixie pour it over her lips and down her throat. 

Her swallow sounds loud, even against the music coming from the room next door. Katya smacks her lips, poking her pink tongue out to trace the rim of the tumbler. She moves her tongue down the side of the glass and over Trixie’s breasts, licking a path that cools Trixie’s skin as it dries.

“Do it again,” Katya insists. 

Trixie tops up the glass between her breasts and leans forward again. This time she’s too fast, and the whisky fills Katya’s mouth until she coughs a bit, dribbling a bit down her chin and neck.

“Fuck, that burns on the way back up,” Katya mutters, “It’s all up my nose.”

Trixie leans forward to lick the whisky up, and Katya’s neck tastes of both whisky and salt. The slower Trixie lets her tongue drag along Katya’s sinewy neck, the faster the pulse in Katya’s neck jumps.

“You do it,” demands Trixie, pulling the glass out of her breasts and handing it to Katya. The glass is warm in her hand, and she knows Katya will be able to feel it too.

Katya pulls up her own t-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, and the fine gold hoop in her nipple catches the light of the lamp.

“How can I hold a fucking glass with these?” she says, bouncing her small breasts. 

“Push them together, come on –“ says Trixie.

Katya tries. She presses the glass against her sternum and squashes her small breasts together so that she is supporting them to wrap around the glass.

Trixie lies back. She opens her mouth wide and stretches out her tongue, ready to catch the whisky.

Katya shoves her chest forward, and the whisky splashes out of the glass and down over Trixie’s face and hair. It runs down over her stomach, settles into the creases that form when she sits, and even down between her legs. 

Trixie can’t hold her laughter in. It’s contagious, and before she knows it, they are shaking the bed with the force of their bodies. 

Whoever is in the room next door slaps the wall near the bed, and that makes them laugh too.

“Katya!” Shouts a voice from the other side of the wall, “Shut the fuck up, man!”

Katya just slaps the wall in return.

“I’m sorry,” Katya wheezes, “I’ll clear it up for you,” 

Katya leans forward, laving her tongue across Trixie’s chest. She sucks at the lace bustier and scrapes her teeth against Trixie’s tender nipple underneath. Trixie wonders if Katya can taste her perfume. She put it on this morning, when everything was very different to how it is now.

Trixie’s nipples immediately become hard and tender, and she writhes under Katya’s mouth. Her mouth is hot and clever, alternating between flicking her tongue back and forth and long, noisy sucks that go straight to Trixie’s pussy. 

“Kiss me,” Trixie pants, “Come up here and kiss me.”

Katya draws back far enough that she can fix her eyes on Trixie’s. She stares and Trixie stares back until she can feel her heart beating in her ears. Katya walks up the bed on her hands, locking her elbows so that she’s not quite touching Trixie’s body. She can feel the heat radiating from Katya though. Trixie’s breath is coming fast, and as she pants her bare nipples brush Katya’s t-shirt. 

Trixie’s upper lip is wet with sweat, and she can feel that her knickers are soaked beneath her jeans. When she presses her thighs together a throb travels up from her swollen clit to her whole body. 

Katya’s lips are swollen and red after sucking Trixie’s nipples. They look like strawberries that have been doused in sugar and left out in the sun on a hot day. 

Katya finally lowers her body on to Trixie’s and Trixie expects to grunt under the weight of her body, but she feels featherlight. Their mouths move together, and Katya’s mouth is just as soft and wet as Trixie hoped for. 

Katya slots her legs either side of Trixie’s and they grind against each other. When the seam of the denim presses against her just right, with the pressure of Katya’s thigh behind it and her tongue in Katya’s mouth, Trixie feels like she’s flying. 

Katya breaks their mouths apart with an audible smack and leans away from Trixie, “What do you want?” 

“Oh fuck - I was already, uh, close,” she admits. She doesn’t want to lose the heat of Katya’s chest pressed against hers, or Katya’s mouth on hers.

Katya smirks, “Do you want me to make you come in your knickers?”

Trixie raises her chin a little so she can look down at Katya, even when their faces are pressed together, “If you can.”

Katya slithers back down over Trixie, sawing her thigh between Trixie’s leg with more rhythm and force. She moves her mouth down Trixie’s neck, sucking deeply so her pulse jumps between Katya’s big white teeth.

Trixie rides Katya’s thigh, bucking against her forcefully. Trixie squirms to get closer to Katya, hooking her ankle around Katya’s and bringing her arms around Katya’s back so that she can rub up Katya’s shoulder blades. The pressure on her clit is perfect and Katya’s warm neck smells so powerfully good, both exotic and familiar.

Trixie’s eyes flutter closed as she gets closer and closer to orgasm. Katya’s breath is hot on her cheek and Trixie is losing it, grunting under Katya, her whole world shrunk to Katya’s firm thigh pressed against her cunt. Katya rolls Trixie’s sensitive nipple between her thumb and forefinger and she’s _gone_ , thrusting down as she pulses, so wet that she’s convinced that she’ll leave a mark on the denim. Katya presses her palm against the fly of Trixie’s jeans and rubs so firmly that she trembles with aftershocks. 

Trixie’s body feels light, like she could float up to the ceiling and stay there, bobbing gently like a birthday balloon. She closes her eyes and lets herself drift, waiting for the sensation to subside. Katya contents herself with sucking more gently at Trixie’s breasts.

“Katya, I want to get you off,” Trixie says, with her eyes still shut. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

“Hrm,” Katya says around her nipple, “No rush.” 

“I have this fantasy,” says Trixie, “From ages ago.”

Katya rolls off Trixie and beams at her, “I’m already interested.”

Trixie loves her open, honest face. She leans down to give her a quick, darting kiss. 

“Will you kneel up on the bed? So that you’re facing the headboard?” Trixie asks.

Katya scrambles to obey, and Trixie regrets not phrasing her request more authoritatively. Katya kneels up, with her legs together and her hands dangling loosely at her sides. She obediently faces the patch of damp that Trixie thought looked like an old man, so many months ago. 

Trixie waits a moment, letting her hands hover in the air behind Katya. She admires the deep curve of Katya’s back, and the way the muscles under her t-shirt tremble. She reaches around to Katya’s stomach, unbuckling her belt and stripping it from her belt loops, casting it to the floor where it falls with a thump.

She roughly pulls Katya’s jeans and black pants down, exposing her pale thighs. Katya’s breaths are ragged, and she lets her head roll on her shoulders.

Trixie rests one hand on Katya’s waist and uses her knee to nudge apart Katya’s knees as far as she can, with her jeans still bunched around them.

Katya hisses through her teeth, “Fuck.”

Trixie wraps her hand around Katya and takes her hip bone in her hand. It’s a convenient handle, and she yanks Katya backwards until their thighs are pressed together. Katya melts into Trixie, letting her body weight rest on Trixie.

Katya whimpers, "Trixie, please."

There's a needy quality to her voice that wasn't there before. Trixie smirks, she feels more confident than the last time they were in bed together. 

Trixie brings her hand up between Katya's legs. Her thighs are wet and tacky. Trixie's nails are still short and square, but she does her best to scratch them up the inside of Katya's tender thighs to make her squirm and shiver. 

At first, she doesn't try to fuck Katya, she just brushes her thumb back and forth over her furred lips. Trixie can smell her, feel her wetness slipping out and over her fingers. She doesn’t deviate from her speed, her pressure. 

Katya whines, body drooping towards the bed. Trixie doesn’t let her go, scooping Katya back by the hip bone so she can sink her teeth in the nape of Katya’s neck. 

With one hard push, Trixie pushes Katya down on to the bed. 

“Stay down,” Trixie commands, moving to sit over Katya’s calves.

When Katya obeys, Trixie rewards her by drawing a clawed hand down her back agonisingly slowly, leaving five red welts in her wake. 

“Trixie, I’m going to…,” Katya mutters into the pillow. 

Trixie pushes into Katya with her two forefingers. Katya’s cunt is tight, and her soft grip makes Trixie desperate to push harder, faster. She starts a quick rhythm, curving up to the rough spot that makes Katya shake. 

Katya tries to spread her legs as far as she can, hampered by both Trixie’s weight and her jeans around her legs. She struggles, wiggling from side to side as Trixie continues to push inside her. The struggle fires something up inside Trixie and she pushes more urgently, determined to wring more reactions out of Katya. She slides another finger inside her, tucks it underneath the others when it’s too tight, desperate to fill Katya up as much as she can. 

Katya arches her back, lifting her shoulders as far from the bed as she can. She bares and grits her teeth, groaning through them. 

“Say something, Katya,” Trixie urges.

Katya twists her hips back on to Trixie’s fingers and whines, “Harder.”

Trixie gives it to her, screwing her fingers into Katya slowly but forcefully. Her pussy squeezes down on Trixie’s fingers with every stroke, and it’s driving Trixie crazy. She’s mesmerised by how pink Katya is, how her glistening slick has spread down Trixie’s fingers and over her wrist. 

Katya’s little ass bobs with every thrust and tenses every time Katya clenches to keep Trixie deep inside her. Trixie brings her hand hard down onto it, with a loud smack that resounds around the room. 

Katya bounces with surprise when the slap lands, following it up with, “Oh fuck, yes – “ 

Her hand leaves a red mark that fires Trixie up further. Trixie wants to make another, make so many more, make enough to last until the next morning and the week to come. She tries to keep her left hand fucking Katya to the same rhythm, while using her right to spank Katya. Trixie is so excited by the way her narrow arse wobbles with every stroke, loves the stark difference between the denim and her pale skin.

Katya’s head is turned sideways on the pillow and Trixie watches her pointed nose and sharp jaw bone; the way her mouth gapes and her eyes scrunch up when Trixie’s blows land. 

She spanks harder and faster until Katya’s whimpering into the pillow, and her housemate is banging on the wall between them. Trixie feels drunk with it. Katya’s cheeks are covered in her blotchy red marks and she’s soaking around Trixie’s hand and down onto the sheets beneath them. The small of her back is puddled with sweat. Trixie can smell it, fresh and salty. 

Katya wedges her hand underneath herself, forearm flexing as she moves her frantically rubs her clit. Trixie feels Katya’s fingertips brush her hand as she relentlessly fucks her, clouding her eyes with lust. Katya’s hungry for all that Trixie can give and Trixie wants to give her more, give her all she could need. 

Trixie can feel Katya getting closer, muscles fluttering around her fingers. Katya turns her face into the pillow and Trixie seizes the opportunity to push Katya’s head down into it. She holds Katya there and listens to how Katya tries to gulp what air she can find. Trixie presses harder, cutting off Katya’s breath. Katya’s shaved scalp is prickly against Trixie’s fingers, and Trixie can’t help running her hands over the uneven shape of her skull.

Trixie keeps pushing, listening to the abortive snuffling noises Katya makes into the worn cotton. Her own heart thumps in her chest, and warmth blooms between her legs. Katya’s body shakes between Trixie’s body and the bed, wracked with shudders so fast and intense it’s like she’s vibrating. Katya’s knuckles go white as she grips the sheets in her fists.

When Trixie is sure Katya’s orgasm is over, she takes her hand from the back of Katya’s head. Katya’s face is bright red, and Katya desperately sucks in air. Trixie can’t stop grinning. She feels about forty foot tall. 

“Jesus,” gasps Katya, “That was fucking dynamite.”

Trixie gathers Katya up on her chest. Her forehead has a sheen of salt and Trixie kisses it and then licks the tang off her own lips. Katya’s heart is still racing and Trixie can feel it through both of their bodies.

“Come on,” says Katya, “I need a piss.”

They creep down the corridor, Katya squeezing Trixie’s hand to warn her about the creaking floorboards. Most of the house is dark and quiet, only a couple of the rooms have a sliver of yellow light peeking out from under the doors. Shea’s soft, rhythmic snoring floats up the stairs.

Katya pulls the light switch in the bathroom, and Trixie recoils as she gets a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting gives her face a sallow glow, and her eyes are ringed with mascara that has been flaked or cried off. Her hair is limp and stringy at the front, while the back has become tangled and matted from rubbing against the sheets.

“I look disgusting,” Trixie says, mostly to herself, as she stares in horror.

Katya stands at the sink, scrubbing over her face with a flannel.

“You what?”

Trixie leans closer to the mirror and picks at a blackhead, “I look disgusting.”

In Katya’s room she had felt like a goddess; voluptuous, blonde and in control of the situation. In the bathroom she feels lumpy, pasty and painfully insecure.

Katya rubs her finger along Trixie’s hip, “You’re gorgeous. You took me apart back there.”

Trixie lets herself smile a little, “You can probably pull any night of the week in any pub in London.”

Katya rolls her eyes, “Yeah, I kicked Raquel Welsh out of bed last week.” 

“You know what I mean,” Trixie whispers, “Katya, will you laugh at me in the morning?”

Katya rolls her eyes and prods at Trixie with the end of her toothbrush, “I’m not entertaining you with this. Do you want to borrow my toothbrush? We ain’t got no spares, so it’s the best I can offer you until morning.”

***

Back in Katya’s room, they lie pressed against each other on her narrow bed. Katya shuffles up the bed so she can look directly into Trixie’s eyes. The tips of their noses brush together, and Trixie’s heart feels like it’s been squeezed in her chest.

Katya cups Trixie’s jaw into her hand, rubs it with her fingertips as their lips move slowly together. Trixie feels overcome with exhaustion, all the adrenaline leaving her body as the day finally ends. As soon as Katya switches her lamp off, Trixie’s eyes start drooping, limbs melting into Katya’s thin mattress as Katya’s fingers walk up and down her waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made that novel up, it doesn't exist.
> 
> I'm writing pretty slowly at the moment, for various reasons. I want to continue this and finish it, but it might take me a little while. I'm hoping to have it wrapped up by the summer though!
> 
> I very much appreciate any feedback that you're able to give me. I'm not part of any real world writing circles so to get real-time feedback from an audience of largely women who love women/queer women is absolutely dreamy.
> 
> Here are the pictures that Trixie was inspired by: https://todayinmadonnahistory.com/2018/06/30/today-in-madonna-history-june-30-1986-2/. These pictures are from the end of June 1986, so Trixie was extremely (perhaps unrealistically...) quick to get them!


End file.
